THE 
DON  LADY 


m 


HELEN  HUNTINGTON 


1 1  i  ill! 


. CLARKE 


261Z8TREMOHTST.8, 

30  COURT  SQ.  BOSTON 


THE   MOON   LADY 


THE  MOON  LADY 


BY 


HELEN  HUNTINGTON 

E 

M 


AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  SOVEREIGN  GOOD,"  "AN  APPRENTICE  TO  TRUTH,"  ETC. 


i.     1^37  r~&^^  if\  //£- 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

MDCCCCXI 


COPYRIGHT,    1911,    BY    CHARLES    SCRIBNER's    SONS 
PUBLISHED    OCTOBER,    1911 


THE   MOON   LADY 


2136285 


THE   MOON  LADY 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  maid  had  informed  Humphrey  that  his 
mother  was  not  at  home.  As  he  entered  her 
sitting-room,  therefore,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  fem- 
inine figure  leaning  over  the  cage  of  the  piping  bull- 
finch, whistling  "Pretty  Polly  Perkins" — a  rendering 
far  inferior  to  that  of  the  bird's. 

Becoming  aware  of  Humphrey's  presence  the  ap- 
parition looked  up  with  a  start.  She  seemed  very 
young,  and  had  a  face  which  brought  an  instant  sug- 
gestion of  sunshine  and  summer  fragrance — rather  as 
the  word  "June"  does. 

"  What  an  extremely  pretty  girl ! "  was  the  thought 
which  flashed  first  through  his  mind  with  the  perfect 
banality  of  nature  itself. 

"I'm  so  sorry!"  he  said  aloud — "I  came  to  wait  for 
my  mother." 

Just  then  the  curtains  hanging  in  front  of  an  old- 
fashioned  alcove  were  swept  aside,  revealing  a  large, 
thickly  set  woman  with  eye-glasses  on  her  nose  and  an 
expression  of  intense  efficiency  in  the  commonplace 
[3] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

on  her  unhealthily  flushed  face.  It  was  his  mother's 
typist,  Emma  Cooper.  She  wore  the  air  of  one  who 
had  already  been  on  the  scene,  and  was  now  rushing 
to  her  cue  for  the  second  time. 

"Miss  Arnold,"  she  said,  "this  is  Mr.  Humphrey 
Wylde,  Mrs.  Wylde's  son — Miss  Arnold  is  waiting  by 
appointment,"  she  explained  to  Humphrey,  if  it  could 
be  called  an  explanation. 

Humphrey  was  puzzled;  "  appointment"  had  a  pro- 
fessional, business-like  sound.  Was  Miss  Arnold  an 
aspirant  to  literature  (his  mother  was  a  well-known 
novelist),  an  agent  of  sorts,  a  representative  of  some 
charity  board,  or  an  interviewer  ?  Nothing  in  her  ap- 
pearance suggested  any  of  these  suppositions;  on  the 
other  hand  nothing  contradicted  them. 

"Sorry  you  have  had  to  wait  so  long!"  he  said 
pleasantly.  The  girl  protested  that  it  did  not  matter 
in  the  least,  and  Humphrey  thought  her  voice  charm- 
ing, low-pitched,  and  full  of  warmth  and  color,  a 
Southern  voice,  but  without  Southern  inflections. 

"You  like  birds,  I  see!"  he  said,  looking  at  the  bull- 
finch, who  was  engaged  in  the  infinitesimal  activities 
of  bird-cage  life.  "Have  you  heard  this  one  do  his 
little  tune?" 

"So  many  times!"  replied  the  girl,  laughing  a  little. 
"  He  had  only  just  stopped,  and  I  was  trying  to  make 
him  go  on  again  when  you  came.  They  all  do  '  Pretty 
[4] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Polly  Perkins,'  or  nearly  all.  I've  had  five  myself  at 
one  time  and  another,  but  they  are  so  delicate,  you 
know — they  all  died — and  now  I've  nothing  but  a  row 
of  little  bullfinch  graves." 

Humphrey  endeavored  to  look  sympathetic,  but 
listened  more  to  the  music  of  her  voice  than  to  what 
she  said.  Again  he  wondered  what  the  "appoint- 
ment," referred  to  by  Emma  Cooper,  could  be  about. 
His  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  the  mysterious  Miss 
Arnold  with  puzzled  scrutiny. 

Suddenly,  and  for  no  reason,  as  far  as  he  could  see, 
she  flushed  a  brilliant  rose-color.  She  was  just  young 
enough  to  imagine  she  had  talked  too  much,  and  been  a 
little  naive  about  her  bullfinches.  Her  manner  took 
on  a  shade  more  of  formality. 

"It  was  so  kind  of  your  mother  to  ask  me  to  come 
to  see  her,"  she  said.  "I  have  only  known  her,  up 
till  now,  by  her  books." 

"You  write  yourself,  perhaps?"  said  Humphrey 
tentatively. 

"Oh,  no!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  forgetting  in  the 
fervor  of  her  disclaimer  all  self-consciousness.  "I 
have  no  talents  of  any  kind.  I  don't  even  know 
any  clever  people." 

"  We  don't  always  know  cleverness  when  we  see  it," 
replied  Humphrey,  "either  in  ourselves  or  any  one 
else." 

[5] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Personally  he  thought  it  didn't  matter  whether  this 
charming  mourner  of  bullfinches  was  clever  or  not — 
she  was  so  many  other  delicious  things. 

"But  we  know  it  in  books,"  she  said.  "The  mo- 
ment I  began  to  read  your  mother's  novel  'Hilmer 
Brothers'  three  years  ago  I  knew  she  was  a  genius. 
After  that  I  read  every  thing  she  ever  published. 
They  were  like  no  other  books  in  the  world  to  me,  and 
when  at  last  I  ventured  to  write  to  her  and  she  an- 
swered asking  me  to  come  to  see  her,  I  felt  it  was  one 
of  the  greatest  things  in  my  life." 

Miss  Cooper,  who  had  been  a  silent  listener  to  the 
conversation  so  far,  here  observed  with  conspicuous 
lack  of  tact  that  Mrs.  Wylde  was  a  great  deal  too  kind- 
hearted  and  was  always  giving  up  her  time  to  every- 
body. 

Humphrey's  face  darkened;  "Hadn't  you  better 
get  on  with  that  typewriting?"  he  said. 

Miss  Cooper,  unconscious  of  offence,  smiled  cun- 
ningly to  herself  as  she  withdrew.  "  He  wants  to  talk 
to  that  girl,"  she  thought,  "well  let  him — what's  the 
harm." 

"So  you're  going  to  meet  my  mother  for  the  first 
time — she's  quite  a  stranger  to  you ! "  said  Humphrey 
reflectively,  when  the  curtains  closed  behind  Miss 
Cooper,  and  the  typewriter  had  resumed  its  fierce, 
staccato  theme. 

[6] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"Yes — except  that  she  doesn't  seem  strange  to  me. 
Don't  you  think,  in  a  way,  one  can  know  a  person  bet- 
ter from  what  she  writes  than  from  what  she  says 
when  she  talks  to  you  ?  You  see,  in  talking,  it's  one- 
self and  the  other,  and  in  writing  it's  the  other  person 
alone,  not  influenced  by  any  consideration  whatever." 

"That's  true — half-way  true,  at  any  rate,"  replied 
Humphrey.  "  People  are  freer  with  their  minds  when 
they  write,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  for  understanding 
each  other — so  much  of  it  comes  from  just  being  to- 
gether, sort  of  instinct,  or  magnetism — if  that's  the 
word — you  know  what  I  mean — don't  you  ?  " 

"Oh — yes!"  exclaimed  Miss  Arnold  with  imper- 
sonal intensity.  She  seemed  to  feel  that  they  were  hav- 
ing a  conversation  of  much  profundity  and  signifi- 
cance. 

"Have  you  noticed  my  mother's  portrait?"  asked 
Humphrey  by  way  of  keeping  up  the  conversation,  and 
indicating  an  oil-painting  by  a  well-known  English 
artist,  which  hung  over  the  mantel-piece.  Miss  Ar- 
nold crossed  the  room  and  placed  herself  beside  Hum- 
phrey on  the  hearth-rug,  from  where  she  could  have 
a  better  view  of  the  picture.  This  simple  action  gave 
Humphrey  unexplained  pleasure. 

"I've  already  seen  reproductions  of  it  in  maga- 
zines," she  said,  "and,  of  course,  it  was  the  first  thing 
I  noticed  when  I  came  in  the  room  this  morning." 

[7] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"It  seems  to  me  more  of  a  picture — than  a  portrait, 
somehow.  It  doesn't  tell  me  anything  about  your 
mother." 

The  two  young  people  stood  and  gazed  up  at  the 
portrait  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

It  might  have  been  considered,  even  in  its  lack  of 
expression,  as  brooding  over  them  fatefully,  withhold- 
ing something  from  their  unconscious  question.  "  How 
wonderful  it  must  be  for  you  to  be  always  with  her!" 
exclaimed  the  girl — really  nai've — now  that  she  was  no 
longer  conscious  of  being  so. 

"This  whole  room  tells  things  about  my  mother," 
said  Humphrey  finally.  "Do  you  notice  the  faint 
scent  of  amber  ?  It's  been  part  of  my  thoughts  of  her 
ever  since  I  was  a  child.  And  see  how  many  fur  rugs 
there  are!  That's  my  mother  too!  She  likes  fur 
better  than  jewels  or  lace." 

Linda  looked  about  her  as  if  for  the  first  time.  A 
magnificent  tiger  skin  on  the  floor  showed  mottled 
tawny  yellow,  black  and  white.  Of  a  sudden  she  saw 
in  its  pattern  the  sunlight  flickering  through  boughs 
of  a  jungle.  A  polar-bear  rug  had  warm  tints  of  old 
ivory,  and  was  time-stained  like  long-lingering  snow 
where  white  melts  into  pale  grays  and  yellows.  And 
there  were  other  furs  too:  a  silvery  gray  wolf-skin,  a 
black  bear,  smooth  to  the  eye  as  burnt-over  marshes, 
[8] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

and  an  eider-down  cover  of  a  delicate  mushroom 
brown,  so  soft  that  the  touch  of  it  was  like  cream  on 
the  palate.  "Oh — I  understand  why  she  cares  so 
much  for  them!"  cried  Linda. 

"Yes,"  replied  Humphrey.  "I  understand  too!" 
Just  then  they  heard  the  ring  of  the  door-bell  down- 
stairs. "There  she  is  now,  I  expect!"  he  cried.  "I'll 
go  to  meet  her  and  tell  her  that  you  are  here."  He 
spoke,  unthinkingly,  as  if  he  and  the  visitor  were  al- 
ready old  friends. 

When  he  returned  he  was  preceded  by  a  lady  who 
came  into  the  room  with  a  grace,  a  hint  of  half- 
capricious  freedom,  which  would  have  been  arresting 
and  conspicuous  even  in  a  crowd. 

Mrs.  Wylde  looked  young,  but  her  youth  seemed 
touched  by  faint,  and  what  seemed  premature,  decay. 
She  was  beautiful  too,  with  a  classic  profile,  deeply 
set,  weary  eyes,  and  much  unruly  auburn  hair;  but 
her  beauty  evoked  less  of  pleasure  than  an  indefinable 
and  mysterious  pity.  There  was  something  at  once 
wistful  and  haggard  in  her  face,  as  if  she  asked  too 
much  of  life  and  could  bear  too  little.  She  was  like 
the  finest  possible  knife-blade  worn  to  the  sharpest 
possible  edge.  More  than  anything  else  she  made  the 
appeal  of  mystery. 

Even  Humphrey  felt  it,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  be- 
ing with  her.  He  watched  Miss  Arnold  curiously  as 
she  looked  at  his  mother's  face  for  the  first  time. 


THE   MOON  LADY 

It  did  not  surprise  him  that  her  interest,  already 
stimulated  by  Mrs.  Wylde's  books,  seemed  captured 
entirely  by  her  personality.  After  their  first  words 
Dioneme  made  the  young  girl  sit  down  beside  her  on 
a  sofa,  saying  that  they  must  have  a  good  talk  together. 
Something  at  once  practised,  gracious,  and  indifferent 
in  her  manner  indicated  it  was  not  the  first  time  she 
had  entertained  youthful  votaries. 

"I  am  afraid  to  talk  to  you,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
want  only  to  listen." 

"  You  will  listen  and  I  will  look,  then,"  replied  Mrs. 
Wylde.  "One  always  looks  at  youth."  The  girl 
tried  to  say  something  about  beauty  which  was  more 
than  that  of  mere  youth. 

"  Mine,  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Wylde.  "  Mine  is  a 
mere  legend  that  has  grown  up  around  me,  one  of  those 
ignorant  and  superstitious  beliefs  which  even  time 
cannot  quite  destroy."  She  smiled  a  little,  but  with- 
out much  mirth. 

"So  you  like  my  books — "  she  went  on,  after  a  min- 
ute. "You  told  me  so  in  your  letter.  I  wish  some 
one  would  say  that  to  me  every  hour  of  the  day!  It 
would  make  work  so  much  easier! "  She  smiled  again, 
more  gayly  now,  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

"Will  there  be  a  new  one  soon?"  asked  the  girl 
eagerly. 

"That  is  the  new  one,"  Mrs.  Wylde  answered,  in- 
dicating the  unseen  but  very  audible  typewriter. 
[  10] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"That  is  its  pre-natal  cry!  What  do  you  make 
of  it?" 

"I  think  they  will  keep  on  getting  more  and  more 
wonderful — but  the  one  I  like  best  is  '  Hilmer  Broth- 
ers.'" 

"And  why?" 

The  girl  glanced  uneasily  at  Humphrey,  and  he 
knew  that  she  wished  he  would  go  away.  It  was  clear 
to  him,  also,  that  his  presence  was  superfluous,  yet 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave  at  once. 

"  I  must  tell  you  some  time  when  I  know  you  better," 
said  Miss  Arnold.  "To-day  I  feel  afraid."  Hum- 
phrey, looking  at  her  eyes,  fancied  them  colored  like 
a  trout-stream  in  which  summer  leaves  are  reflected. 

"We  shall  soon  know  each  other  better,"  said 
Dioneme.  "And  you've  made  friends  with  my  son 
already,  he  tells  me.  He  is  not  in  the  least  literary, 
but  he  criticises  me  in  spite  of  it.  He  says  my  male 
characters  are  not  real  men,  and  that  my  idea  of  a 
man  is  just  something  to  make  love  to  a  woman. 

"However — "  she  went  on  in  a  whimsical  and  cap- 
tivating way,  "  if  one  goes  deeply  into  it,  perhaps  there 
are  no  manly  men.  You  don't  understand  me,  of 
course,  but  let  me  tell  you  what  happened  to  me  not 
long  ago.  Some  critic  had  just  said  that  most  of  the 
men  in  my  books  were  weak  and  effeminate,  and  I 
was  feeling  rather  resentful  in  consequence,  so  de- 
[11] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

cided  (though  I  never  as  a  rule  take  my  characters 
from  real  life)  that  I  would  look  about  among  my 
friends  and  acquaintances,  select  one  of  the  most  manly 
men,  and  immortalize  him  in  all  his  splendid  boldness 
and  force. 

"  Can  you  imagine  what  my  feelings  were  when  I  tell 
you  that,  in  spite  of  a  sufficiently  large  acquaintance, 
I  couldn't  think  of  anybody!" 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  from  the  speaker's  accent 
whether  she  was  making  light  of  a  real  conviction,  or 
treating  a  joke  seriously.  Linda  Arnold  gave  an  un- 
certain laugh — but  Dioneme's  mind  was  off  on  a  new 
track.  "You  have  such  a  charming  name,"  she  said, 
abruptly.  "I  remember  from  your  note — ' Linda'! — 
that  means  beautiful  in  Spanish.  I  was  afraid  it 
might  not  suit  you — but  it  does." 

The  girl  blushed.  "It  always  seemed  to  me  rather 
a  foolish,  sentimental  name,"  she  said.  "My  sister 
chose  it — the  one  who  brought  me  up — my  mother 
died  when  I  was  only  a  few  weeks  old." 

Humphrey  saw  that  his  mother,  though  apparently 
listening  to  what  Miss  Arnold  was  saying,  was  really 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts.  Perhaps,  with  her 
usual  vivid  insight,  she  contemplated  young  girlhood 
in  its  essence,  with  its  seriousness,  its  simplicity,  its 
reserve,  its  enormous  and  lovable  egotism.  It  might 
be  that  she  saw  this  particular  young  girl  as  a  symbol 
[12] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

of  her  entire  sex  at  its  moment  of  flowering  and  inno- 
cence, felt  the  pathos  of  it  all,  the  wonder,  the  mystery, 
— looked  ahead  and  divined  a  future — the  inevitable 
lover — until  she  was  rushed  along  by  the  current  of 
her  fancy  to  some  fleeting  conception  of  all  woman- 
kind, forever  dominated  by  man,  forever  guarding  from 
this  appointed  and  often  beloved  master  the  secret  of 
her  thought  of  him. 

He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  to  leave  the  two 
together,  and  so  he  did.  His  mother  hardly  noticed 
his  farewell  nor  his  departure,  but  the  girl  gave  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

"One  can  talk  so  much  easier  when  one  is  alone!" 
she  said  involuntarily. 

"  That  is  true,"  agreed  her  hostess.  At  this  thought 
she  summoned  Miss  Cooper  from  her  alcove. 

"You  can  go  to  lunch  now,  Emma,"  she  said.  "I 
sha'n't  want  you  until  two  o'clock." 

"But  it's  only  twelve-thirty,  and  I  never  lunch 
until  one,"  protested  Miss  Cooper,  as  if  aggrieved. 

"To-day  you  can  lunch  earlier,"  said  Mrs.  Wylde 
sweetly,  but  with  decision. 

"I  don't  want  to  lunch,"  said  the  typist,  with  the 
air  of  one  doggedly  defending  a  principle.  "You 
never  wanted  me  to  lunch  at  twelve-thirty  before!" 

Mrs.  Wylde  made  no  reply,  but  looked  fixedly  at 
her  employee  with  a  faint,  formal  smile  on  her  lips. 
[13] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Miss  Cooper  walked  toward  the  door.  She  mur- 
, mured  something  unintelligible.  It  might  have  been 
divined  that  she  was  repeating  that  she  never  lunched 
until  one. 

"Emma  is  fond  of* me,"  commented  Mrs.  Wylde, 
"but  she  finds  me  irresponsible  and  erratic.  Once  I 
spelled  rhapsody  without  an  h  and  she  couldn't  under- 
stand it,  because  I  had  never  spelled  it  that  way  before. 
She  often  speaks  of  it." 

"My  sister  is  like  that,  in  a  way,"  said  Linda 
Arnold.  "  She  always  expects  people  to  be  consistent, 
and  if  they're  not"  she  thinks  they  are  unreliable.  She 
is  very  consistent  herself — and  so  good !" 

Now,  the  girl  felt,  they  were  really  launched  on  that 
momentous  talk  to  which  she  had  been  looking  forward 
for  days. 

It  seemed  to  Humphrey,  who  was  waiting  down- 
stairs, a  very  long  interview,  but  finally  he  heard  the 
parlor-maid  closing  the  front  door,  and  going  to  the 
window  he  was  in  time  to  see  Miss  Arnold  walking 
down  the  street.  He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  in  the 
curving  grace  and  buoyancy  of  her  young  figure  there 
was  something  which  suggested  to  him  the  lift  up- 
ward of  a  wave  of  the  sea. 


[14] 


CHAPTER  II 

ETER,  in  the  drawing-room,  Humphrey  and  his 
mother  waited  for  luncheon  to  be  announced. 
Their  surroundings  were  conventional,  artistic  and 
comfortable.  Chairs  and  tables  of  Georgian  style, 
chintzes,  old  engravings  and  porcelains — a  delightful 
room — but  like  many  others.  Those  who  knew  Dio- 
neme  sometimes  wondered  that  her  personality  did  not 
express  itself  in  a  more  unusual  interior,  not  realizing 
that  the  greater  the  imagination  the  more  it  can  dis- 
pense, as  a  rule,  with  artificial  stimulus.  The  real 
poet  and  dreamer  sees  not  his  surroundings,  but  the 
ineffable  beauty  of  his  dream.  "  Tell  me  more  about 
that  girl  this  morning,"  said  Humphrey.  He  stood 
on  the  bear-skin  rug  in  front  of  the  wood-fire,  his  feet 
well  apart  as  if  to  brace  himself  against  unexpected 
attack,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  The  oval  Hepple- 
white  mirror  over  the  chimney-piece  reflected  the  back 
of  his  head  with  its  smooth  black  hair  and  he  looked 
down  at  his  mother  with  the  steady  blue  eyes  which  he 
had  inherited  from  a  sailor  grandfather.  There  was 
a  hint  of  sly  humor  in  these  eyes,  as  well  as  of  the 
qualities  of  courage  and  patience  it  so  often  is  called 
upon  to  support. 

[15] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Dioneme's  slimness  trailed  along  a  low  chair  as 
flexibly  as  a  scarf  cast  upon  it.  She  returned  Hum- 
phrey's gaze  with  an  amused  sparkle  in  her  face,  but 
no  jealous  apprehension.  She  knew  that  Humphrey 
had  never  cared  for  young  girls. 

"You've  already  learned  her  name,"  she  said. 
"  She  lives  with  her  father  and  sister  in  a  new  house  on 
upper  Fifth  Avenue.  The  people  she  knows  are  the 
ones  who  make  an  art  of  living,  and  are  as  a  rule 
ignorant  of  other  arts,  except  for  purposes  of  patron- 
age. They  are  agreeable  certainties.  I  attract  her 
because  I  am  an  uncertainty  to  her — the  unknown, 
and  also  because  she  likes  my  books. 

"  Seemed  a  nice  kind  of  girl,"  observed  Humphrey, 
with  studied  carelessness. 

"  She  is  coming  again  soon — but  only  to  see  me,  re- 
member!" Dioneme  went  on — again  with  the  hint  of 
innuendo.  It  amused  her,  knowing  his  real  indiffer- 
ence, to  speak  as  if  Humphrey  might  be  interested  in 
the  visitor. 

In  a  way  she  was  right.  Heretofore  young  girls 
had  not  pleased  Humphrey,  their  very  girlishness 
was  an  annoyance,  they  were  so  serious  about  the 
serious  things  of  life!  Where  the  married  woman 
laughed — the  girl,  as  often  as  not,  uttered  a  solemn 
platitude,  where  the  wise  married  woman  was  silent — 
the  girl  invariably  gushed. 

[16] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

But  what  his  mother  did  not  divine  was  that  Miss 
Arnold  had  struck  him  as  strangely  and  appealingly 
different. 

He  meditated  in  silence  for  a  moment  on  the  odd 
and  rather  attractive  slant  of  her  eyebrows,  which  he 
had  happened  to  particularly  notice  that  morning. 
Her  voice,  too,  had  certainly  a  vibration  which  haunted 
one. 

"She  was  pretty — didn't  you  think  so? — like  a 
spring  flower  with  the  sun  on  it!"  said  Dioneme,  whose 
mind  worked  in  similes. 

She  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  gazed 
into  the  fire  as  she  went  on: 

"  I  don't  know  when  I've  had  a  visitor  who  pleased 
me  so  much,  or  who  seemed  to  appreciate  me  so  well. 
Of  course  I'm  perfectly  well  aware  that  only  un- 
qualifying admirers  are  called  appreciators  by  any 
writer.  The  flattery  which  really  satisfies  one  is  the 
flattery  of  youth,  the  over-estimation  of  those  who 
cannot  possibly  know!"  It  was  characteristic  of 
Dioneme's  low  opinion  of  her  own  work  that  she  put 
down  unrestricted  praise  as  the  inevitable  offspring  of 
ignorance. 

"Still  she  was  an  intelligent  little  thing — "  she  went 
on  meditatively,  more  to  herself  than  Humphrey. 

He  did  not  answer  her.  He  was  thinking  that  he 
and  Miss  Arnold  would  almost  certainly  meet  again, 
[17] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

even  if  he  did  not — as  he  might  be  tempted — break  in 
on  his  mother's  interviews  with  her. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Dioneme  suddenly. 

"The  clock's  before  your  eyes  and  a  watch  on 
your  wrist,"  said  Humphrey  laughing.  "Why  ask 
me!" 

"  But  the  clock  has  stopped  and  my  watch  says  half- 
past  nine.  No  one's  timepiece  but  yours  goes  in  this 
house.  By  the  way,  I  thought  of  such  a  nice  design 
for  a  clock  the  other  day.  Father  Time  playing  dia- 
bolo  with  an  hour-glass!" 

"I  thought  diabolo  was  out  of  fashion." 

"So  it  is,  but  that  will  only  make  my  clock  more 
quaint  and  rococo.  What  time  did  you  say  it  was  ?  " 

"It's  half-past  one.     Why  don't  we  have  lunch?" 

"It's  ready  now,"  replied  Dioneme  as  the  parlor- 
maid appeared  in  the  door.  They  went  into  the  din- 
ing-room, which,  like  most  New  York  dining-rooms, 
was  dark  and  showed  through  the  draped  windows  a 
vista  of  brick  walls.  Two  electric  lights,  burning  in 
side  brackets,  helped  to  eke  out  the  pale  and  feeble 
light  of  day.  But  in  the  semi-obscurity  Dioneme's 
splendid  hair  gleamed  and  her  white  face  was  young 
and  exquisite. 

Humphrey  unfolded  his  napkin,  and  seemed  to 
arouse  himself  for  the  first  time  from  his  state  of  ab- 
sent-mindedness. 

[18] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"Well,  and  how  are  you  to-day,  my  dear  mother?" 
he  said,  as  if  they  had  just  met. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Dioneme  simply. 

"I  mean,  how  are  your  mind  and  heart  and  soul?" 

"Oh,  starved,"  she  replied,  with  an  accent,  half- 
playful,  half-sincere,  "all  starved." 

"Perhaps  they're  overfed,"  suggested  Humphrey. 
"Rather  alike,  aren't  they — the  pains  of  starvation 
and  indigestion?" 

"Don't  talk  about  it!"  exclaimed  Dioneme.  "You 
wouldn't  understand ! "  A  pause  ensued. 

"How  is  the  new  story  coming  on?"  asked  Hum- 
phrey finally. 

"It's  almost  finished,  but  I  can't  think  of  a  name. 
I  lie  awake  nights,  but  nothing  comes  to  me — nothing, 
nothing,  nothing  I " 

"  Why  don't  you  take  a  book — the  Bible,  for  instance, 
that's  full  of  titles! — shut  your  eyes  and  put  your  fin- 
ger on  a  line.  That  would  be  as  good  a  way  as  any 
other.  Titles  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  the  book, 
as  far  as  I  can  see.  I've  just  read  a  story  called, 
'Sick  Cannons' — any  human  being  know  what  that 
means  ?  " 

Dioneme  laughed,  but  with  the  air  of  one  who  hu- 
mors a  child.  She  seemed  self-absorbed  and  merely 
played  with  the  food  on  her  plate. 

"  Very  good,  this  minced  chicken,"  said  Humphrey, 
[19] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

helping  himself  liberally.  "  Take  some  more,  mother. 
You  don't  eat  enough." 

"I  can't  eat,"  said  Dioneme.  "I'm  not  hungry. 
All  I  want  is  a  cup  of  coffee."  Just  then  the  telephone 
bell  rang  in  the  hall,  and  the  maid  went  to  answer  it. 

"  Some  one  wants  to  speak  to  Mr.  Humphrey,"  she 
said  when  she  returned.  While  her  son  was  gone 
Dioneme  abstractedly  picked  to  pieces  a  rose  which 
she  took  from  the  silver  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 
When  the  operation  was  finished  she  looked  at  the 
strewn  petals  and  the  naked  stalk  with  something  like 
horror,  as  if  she  had  waked  suddenly  from  a  state  of 
somnambulism  to  find  herself  dissecting  the  body  of 
a  little  delicate  animal. 

After  a  few  moments  Humphrey  came  back. 

"It  was  Norris,"  he  said.  Norris  Peters  was  his 
best  friend  and  associate  architect.  "  Something  about 
the  plans  we're  working  on  now." 

"  For  that  Michigan  medical  college,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Yes,  Norris  has  just  seen  one  of  the  faculty,  and 
he  says  that  the  old  man  most  interested  in  it,  in  fact 
the  one  who  is  giving  most  of  the  money,  has  his  heart 
set  on  something  in  what  he  calls  '  Christian  IV  style,' 
kind  of  Danish  Renaissance!  It  appears  he  came 
from  Copenhagen,  or  his  father  did.  'The  cradle 
always  calls,'  as  the  Spanish  proverb  says.  Now, 
of  course,  whoever  pleases  this  old  man — his  name  is 
[20] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

Garborg — will  get  the  building.  He's  capable  of  throw- 
ing away  no  end  of  money  in  plans  until  he  gets  what 
he  wants." 

"What  is  Danish  Renaissance?"  asked  Dioneme. 

"  A  mongrel  offspring  of  the  Dutch  sixteenth  century 
style.  I'll  show  you  a  picture  I've  got  somewhere  of 
the  Exchange  in  Copenhagen.  It's  got  a  tower  one 
hundred  and  sixty-seven  feet  high,  surmounted  by  four 
huge  dragons  standing  on  their  heads  with  their  tails 
entwined.  Of  course,  we  couldn't  be  responsible  for 
a  building  in  Christian  IV  style,  besides  our  plan  is 
already  thought  out,  all  'Beaux  Arts,'  if  you  like,  but 
good  of  its  kind.  Some  one  has  got  to  persuade  old 
Garborg  that  he  doesn't  want  Copenhagen  architecture 
in  La  Salle,  Michigan,  and  Norris  thinks  he  can  do  it. 
He's  going  on  to  Washington,  where  Garborg  is  stay- 
ing until  Sunday,  to  have  a  talk  with  him." 

Humphrey,  interested  in  his  subject,  talked  on  and 
on,  until  he  noticed  that  his  mother's  expression  was 
distant  and  preoccupied,  though  she  kept  her  eyes 
on  his  face  with  an  attempt  at  real  attention.  Only 
at  the  mention  of  the  sky-signalling  dragons'  tails  had 
any  spark  kindled  in  her.  Plainly,  and  regrettably 
from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  the  architectural  mon- 
strosity delighted  her  imagination  with  its  suggestion 
of  the  fanciful  and  baroque. 

When  her  son  stopped  she  said,  very  sincerely  and 
[21  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

with  apparently  deep  interest,  that  she  hoped  he  would 
get  the  building.     She  wanted  him  to  succeed. 

"  Not  so  much  for  the  money;  there's  money  enough 
for  us  both!" 

Humphrey  winced,  and  seemed  about  to  reopen 
some  old  discussion,  but  changed  his  mind,  and  they 
went  back  into  the  drawing-room  to  take  their  coffee 
by  the  fire.  "Bring  some  green  chartreuse,  too, 
Ellen,"  said  Dioneme. 

Humphrey  frowned.  "Bad  for  you,  mother!"  he 
said,  "you  can't  write  books  on  no  food  and  green 
chartreuse!" 

"  But  I'm  so  tired,  Humphrey,  and  I  want  to  do  two 
hours'  more  work  this  afternoon.  I  must  have  some- 
thing to  give  me  strength,  you  see!" 

She  looked  at  her  son  with  pretty  cajolery  as  if  he 
had  been  her  lover,  but  he  did  not  answer  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  maid  brought  the  coffee,  the  bottle  of 
chartreuse,  and  the  liqueur  glasses,  and  put  them  down 
on  a  small  round  mahogany  table  near  the  fire. 

Humphrey,  in  his  old  place  in  front  of  the  chim- 
ney-piece, watched  her  abstractedly.  There  was  a 
troubled  expression  on  his  face  as  if  he  considered 
difficulties  which  were  as  yet  uncertainties.  Finally 
he  said: 

"  You  know  we  had  a  talk  the  other  day  about  stimu- 
lants, and  you  agreed  to  give  them  up." 
[22] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  I  have  for  the  most  part.  You 
saw  I  took  only  one  small  glass  of  white  wine  at  lunch! 
But  when  I  need  it!" 

"You  don't  need  it,  that's  just  the  point;  regular 
poison  for  you,  alcohol  is!  A  nervous,  highly  strung 
woman  like  you! — But  why  do  we  have  to  go  over  the 
whole  thing  again.  You  promised,  you  remember." 

A  flicker  of  rare  anger  showed  in  Dioneme's  eyes. 
His  tone  though  affectionate  was  peremptory.  A 
child  did  not  speak  so  to  his  mother!  And  he  was  too 
tedious  and  matter-of-fact,  unlike  himself!  "Don't 
preach,  Humphrey,"  she  said  shortly,  and  taking  her 
coffee,  drank  it  down  in  quick  gulps.  Humphrey's 
remained  untouched.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
it.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  and  in  the  silence  there 
was  a  certain  gravity  and  disquietude. 

Suddenly  Dioneme  rose  and  with  a  pretty  and  im- 
pulsive gesture  laid  her  hand  on  her  son's  broad 
shoulders. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  feel  this  way  about  nothing 
at  all,"  she  said.  "  I  won't  take  it." 

"  Good,"  said  Humphrey  briefly,  with  his  arm 
around  her.  They  stood  close  together  in  this  way 
for  a  moment  without  speaking,  then  Dioneme  threw 
herself  down  in  her  low  chair  again.  Humphrey 
reached  for  his  neglected  coffee  and  sipped  it  slowly 
while  his  mother  began  to  talk. 
[23] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"You  can't  realize,  a  strong  creature  like  you," 
she  said,  with  her  usual  charm  and  intensity,  "how 
one  feels  when  stimulant  of  some  kind  becomes  a 
necessity.  To-day  I'm  like  a  hop-vine  trying  to  stand 
up  without  its  pole.  Everything  seems  so  queer  and 
light  and  unreal  to  me! 

"Do  you  remember,  Humphrey,  when  you  were  a 
child  and  used  to  blow  soap-bubbles  ?  Just  at  the  end, 
before  they  burst,  the  colors  deepened  and  whirled 
in  them  till  one  was  giddy!  The  world  seems  that 
way  to  me  sometimes,  swimming  and  changing  and 
meaningless.  It's  all  unbearable!  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
going  mad." 

"Nerves,"  said  Humphrey  laconically,  but  there 
was  an  unboyish  accent  of  sympathy  and  comprehen- 
sion in  his  voice.  "  What  you  need  is  rest.  Go  and 
take  a  nap  this  minute,  will  you  ?  I'm  off  to  the 
office!"  He  leaned  over  and  dropped  a  kiss  on  his 
mother's  hair.  "  Man  who  saw  you  with  me  the  other 
day  thought  you  were  my  sister,"  he  said,  and  de- 
parted. 

Dioneme  listened  to  his  footsteps  in  the  hall  and 
to  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  front  door  without 
moving.  Gradually  the  smile  which  his  last  words 
had  brought  to  her  lips  faded  and  her  face  grew  al- 
most haggard  again. 

"His  name,  Humphrey,  means  'protector  of  the 
[24] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

house,'"  she  said  to  herself,  fancifully.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  may  have  felt  a  pride  in  thinking  that  her 
son  was  stronger  than  she,  then  she  gradually  reverted 
to  the  abuse  of  her  own  dignity  in  his  supervision  and 
watchfulness.  At  last  she  seemed  to  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject with  a  sigh,  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  look- 
ing out,  absent-mindedly,  on  the  hard,  sunlit  street, 
which  was  beginning  to  wake  up  to  its  decorous  after- 
noon activities.  The  luncheon  guests  of  the  lady  who 
lived  opposite  fluttered  through  the  door,  one  by  one, 
like  pigeons  issuing  from  a  cote,  entered  their  waiting 
carriages  or  motors,  and  were  borne  away.  Then  the 
hostess  herself  made  an  imposing  sortie,  flanked  by 
her  butler,  footman,  carriage  groom  and  toy-dog, 
and  drove  off  in  a  high-swung  victoria,  the  plume  in 
her  toque  waving  loftily. 

At  another  house  they  began  to  lay  down  a  strip  of 
red  carpet,  horrid  portent  of  an  afternoon  tea.  De- 
livery wagons  rattled  by,  and  asthmatic  taximetre 
cabs.  A  mounted  policeman  took  up  his  stand  on 
the  corner  and  petrified  himself  into  a  statue  of  law 
and  order.  Above  the  houses  the  sky  showed  a 
crude  brilliant  blue,  the  light  and  shadow  everywhere 
was  sharp-edged,  incisive;  there  was  something  al- 
most brutal  in  the  exposure  of  every  outline  and  detail, 
something  raw,  uncompromising,  unpersuasive,  like 
the  city  itself.  After  a  time  it  increased  Dioneme's 
[25] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

nervousness.  Her  limbs  seemed  full  of  twitching 
springs.  She  was  so  exhausted  that  she  longed  for 
inaction,  but  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  keep  still, 
and  she  paced  up  and  down  the  room  a  few  times  with 
her  hand  clutching  her  throat,  a  prey  to  the  most  tort- 
uring nervousness.  Her  eyes  fell  again  on  the  glass  of 
chartreuse  and  lingered  as  if  fascinated.  It  glowed, 
soft,  translucent,  like  some  splendid  green  peridot. 

"  Humphrey  makes  himself  ridiculous,"  she  thought, 
with  sudden  anger  and  felt  as  if  she  must  shriek  aloud 
with  the  tension  of  her  nerves.  The  oily  green  liqueur 
continued  to  hold  her  gaze  with  the  strange  spell  of 
jewels. 

"I  won't  take  it,  I  won't  take  it,"  she  said,  half 
aloud,  but  even  as  she  spoke,  moved  by  some  force 
stronger  than  her  own  volition,  she  walked  to  the  table, 
seized  the  glass,  and  swallowed  the  liqueur  eagerly. 
It  seemed  of  mingled  fire  and  oil.  Almost  at  once 
warmth  flowed  through  her  veins,  every  muscle  re- 
laxed, the  tension  on  her  nerves  ceased.  She  imagined 
she  felt  like  one  of  those  dried  Japanese  plants  which, 
placed  in  water,  gently  unfold.  Her  eyelids  drooped 
heavily  over  her  eyes  with  a  sense  of  delicious  languor. 

The  second  glass  of  chartreuse  thrilled  her  with  its 

sweet  exotic  perfume,  she  thought  of  fields  of  strange 

flowers,  of  the  clinging  fragrance  of  Eastern  bazaars, 

and  sipped  it  slowly,  slowly,  lingering  over  each  swal- 

[26] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

low.  Then  she  sank  back  into  her  low  chair  and 
closed  her  eyes.  How  wonderful  to  feel  the  world 
slipping  away  in  this  glow  of  peace  and  happiness. 
No  thought  of  Humphrey  troubled  her.  Oh,  the 
ecstasy  of  relief  from  that  agony  of  the  nerves!  Now 
she  could  sleep,  now  she  could  forget! 

When  Humphrey  came  back  that  evening,  unusu- 
ally late,  for  he  had  stopped  at  his  club  on  the  way,  he 
found  his  mother  had  already  gone  out. 

"Mrs.  Wylde  was  dining  with  some  people  and 
going  to  the  play  afterward,  I  think,  sir,"  explained 
the  maid  of  whom  he  made  inquiries.  He  was  a  little 
surprised,  as  this  kind  of  festivity  was  one  Dioneme 
had  not  indulged  in  since  his  father's  death.  In  his 
own  room,  however,  he  found  a  note  from  his  mother, 
scribbled  hastily  in  pencil,  in  which  she  gave  the  same 
explanation  of  her  absence.  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  this 
morning,"  she  said.  Looking  at  the  note  again  he 
saw  there  was  a  postscript :  "  I  felt  so  badly  after  you 
went  away  that  I  took  the  liqueur,  after  all."  The 
words  reverberated  in  Humphrey  with  a  sense  of  great 
import.  He  had  not  guessed,  until  now,  that  there 
was  any  question  of  temptation.  Here,  too,  was  a 
faint  signal  to  him  of  something  sinister,  something 
from  which  his  mind  recoiled.  There  passed  over  him 
the  first  dim  perception  of  the  tragic,  for  tragedy  lies 
[27] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

not  in  the  fact  itself,  but  in  the  shadow  which  it  casts 
on  the  soul.  His  mother  had  broken  her  promise  to 
him.  What  did  this  petty  betrayal  mean  ? 

By  it  he  perceived  a  new  and  painful  significance  to 
past  and  future.  How  long  had  it  been  since  he  had 
first  noticed  his  mother's  fondness  for  stimulants  ? 
He  could  not  remember. 

There  flashed  through  his  mind  a  sudden  remem- 
brance of  a  play  he  had  once  seen  in  a  French  theatre. 
The  details  came  back  vaguely.  There  had  been  a 
pretty  woman,  lightly  intoxicated,  the  whole  a  mere 
bit  of  Gallic  humor,  daintily  done,  acceptable.  He 
had  laughed,  he  recollected,  with  the  rest.  Now  cer- 
tain words,  pronounced  in  a  whisper  even,  but  in  con- 
nection with  his  mother,  were  monstrous,  obscene. 
They  made  the  world  reel. 

Later  he  pulled  himself  together  by  an  effort  and 
denied,  with  determined  bravado,  his  own  perception. 
It  was  a  momentary  supposition,  only,  which  had  ar- 
rested him,  a  fear  showing  a  face  like  reality.  Finally 
he  succeeded  in  reaching  a  state  of  mind  in  which  he 
could  take  a  certain  satisfaction  in  his  mother's  frank- 
ness of  avowal  and  no  longer  ask  whether  the  avowal 
itself  came  from  indifference  to  a  small  thing  or  ac- 
knowledgment of  a  great. 


[28] 


CHAPTER  III 

HUMPHREY'S  childhood  had  been  spent  in  one 
of  the  older  New  Jersey  suburbs — a  place  un- 
known to  fashion  and  contemptuous  of  it.  In  Omp- 
ton  people  lived  with  decorum  and  strict  economy, 
paid  their  discreet  tribute  to  contemporary  art,  science, 
and  literature,  and  dwelt  much  on  their  ancestry. 
The  celebrities  of  this  community  were  often  distantly 
connected  with  celebrities  of  the  adjacent  metropolis. 
The  local  financial  magnate  was  cousin  to  a  world- 
famous  railroad  president,  the  head  of  the  Ompton 
Fortnightly  Literary  Club  was  a  nephew  of  the  editor 

of 's  Magazine,  and  the  style  in  hats  was  set  by 

a  lady  whose  sister  had  married  into  the  family  of 
a  Newport  millionaire. 

Humphrey's  father  and  mother  had  never  held 
much  intercourse  with  their  neighbors,  but  lived  some- 
what apart,  the  latter  occupied  with  her  writing,  while 
Morris  Wylde  kept  to  himself  by  reason  of  the  delicate 
and  instinctive  fastidiousness  which  made  him,  all 
his  life,  more  or  less  of  an  enigma  to  those  who  knew 
him. 

The  Wyldes'  house  was  a  long,  low,  wooden  one, 
painted  brown,  and  with  a  veranda  which  ran  along 
[29] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

three  sides  of  it.  It  stood  on  a  corner  at  the  top  of  a 
hill  and  had  a  smoothly  clipped  lawn  around  it,  and  a 
small  kitchen  garden  at  the  back. 

The  street  on  the  side  of  the  house  led  down  past  a 
strip  of  low-lying  waste  land  to  the  railroad  tracks  and 
was  called  Murray  Street.  It  symbolized  for  Hum- 
phrey all  that  his  childish  imagination  divined  of  fear 
and  of  evil. 

At  the  top  of  the  street  stood,  first  of  all,  the  Insane 
Asylum,  an  edifice  of  bleak  red  brick  which  ran  down 
precipitously  at  the  back  to  where  the  Ompton  River, 
muddy  and  sluggish,  lay  among  a  tangle  of  wild  plants 
and  straggling  trees  and  received  the  refuse  from 
sewer-pipes. 

Beyond  this  river  was  the  sunken  ground,  twenty 
feet,  perhaps,  below  the  level  of  the  road,  so  that,  in 
passing  along  the  sidewalk,  one  looked  down  into  it 
as  if  it  were  a  yawning  gulf. 

Coarse,  ill-smelling  weeds  and  all  kind  of  rank 
vegetation  flourished  in  the  Murray  Street  low  ground, 
snakes  crawled  there  and  sometimes  came  up  to  lie 
with  their  slimy  lengths  along  the  sidewalk;  in  rainy 
springs  the  place  was  flooded  and  smelt  of  yellow 
ooze,  and  on  humid  summer  nights  it  reeked  of  malaria 
and  was  alive  with  poisonous  mosquitoes  and  with 
myriads  of  fire-flies,  twinkling  like  baleful  flames. 

To  walk  along  Murray  Street  was  always  an  ad- 
[30] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

venture  to  Humphrey.  It  was  like  going  out  into  a 
jungle  and  facing  swarming,  unseen  perils.  At  night 
he  sometimes  dreamed  of  it,  and  woke  with  a  start, 
cold  and  damp  with  perspiration. 

Of  course  he  said  nothing  of  all  this  to  his  parents, 
being  ashamed  of  his  unmanly  terrors  and  resolved  to 
conquer  them.  The  evil  spell  of  Murray  Street  re- 
mained therefore  unsuspected  by  either  Dioneme  or 
Mr.  Wylde. 

On  Sundays  Humphrey  went  with  his  father  to  the 
ivy-covered  stone  church  of  St.  John  the  Divine. 

Dioneme  seldom  accompanied  them,  and  was  much 
condemned  by  her  neighbors  in  consequence.  Some 
of  them  professed  to  have  seen  her  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings strolling,  bare-headed,  through  a  little  grove  at 
the  edge  of  the  town,  singing  to  herself  like  a  mad 
Ophelia,  and  once,  on  Ascension  Day,  she  created 
quite  a  scandal  by  galloping  noisily  down  Main  Street 
on  her  chestnut  horse  just  as  the  congregation  were 
coming  out  from  evening  prayer. 

Dioneme  was,  at  all  times,  much  discussed  in  Omp- 
ton  as  was  to  have  been  expected.  People  argued  with 
each  other  about  her  strange  pale  beauty,  which  some 
could  see  and  others  denied,  and  repeated  what  they 
knew  of  her  history. 

She  had,  it  appeared,  been  born  in  Honolulu  (which 
of  itself  had  an  outlandish  sound).  Her  father  had 
[31] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

been  a  naval  officer,  of  a  distinguished  Southern  family, 
but  her  mother  was  no  more  than  an  actress  in  a  San 
Francisco  theatre,  who  had  died  young  and  unknown 
to  fame.  Dioneme,  when  a  young  girl,  had  followed 
her  father,  in  vagabond  fashion,  around  the  world 
(tales,  more  or  less  fabulous,  were  told  of  her  advent- 
ures in  various  ports). 

At  eighteen  she  had  won  a  prize  offered  by  a  London 
newspaper  syndicate  for  the  best  story  of  ten  thou- 
sand words,  and  that  was  the  beginning  of  her  literary 
career.  Soon  afterward,  at  Nice,  she  had  met  Mor- 
ris Wylde,  the  son  of  an  old  but  somewhat  obscure 
Knickerbocker  family,  and  they  had  married  after  a 
month's  acquaintance. 

"A  queer  marriage!"  said  the  people  of  Ompton — 
and  predicted  disaster.  They  had  a  vague  pride  in 
Dioneme  as  a  noted  writer,  though  they  did  not  like 
her  books,  which  they  found  disconcerting  in  their 
ruthless  presentation  of  facts,  hysterical  in  their  ardent 
imagination.  "Morbid"  was  the  word  most  often 
used  in  regard  to  them. 

But  Humphrey  never  suspected  that  his  father  and 
mother  differed  from  other  boys'  fathers  and  mothers. 
He,  of  all  the  family,  identified  himself  with  his  sur- 
roundings. He  went,  as  a  child,  to  a  kindergarten 
and  afterward  to  a  boys'  day  school,  where  he  became 
extremely  popular.  He  played  tennis  and  foot-ball, 
[32  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

made  a  collection  of  postage-stamps,  raised  bull- 
terriers,  and  sent  valentines  to  the  girls.  When  he  was 
fifteen  his  father  inherited  from  an  old  aunt  the  house 
on  Madison  Avenue  and  a  small  fortune,  and  they 
moved  to  New  York.  Ompton  receded  into  the  shad- 
owy distance,  except,  perhaps,  Murray  Street,  which 
through  all  his  life  continued  to  menace  him  in  dreams. 

From  this  time  Dioneme's  reputation  grew  rapidly. 
She  was  absorbed  by  her  work  and  the  interests  and 
excitements  it  brought  her,  and  her  husband  was  ab- 
sorbed in  her.  Humphrey,  away  at  school,  spending 
his  holidays  often  with  his  boy  friends,  grew  more  and 
more  out  of  touch  with  his  father  and  mother.  When 
he  was  at  home  the  house  was  always  either  full  of 
people  or  wrapped  in  a  hush  which  no  one  must  dis- 
turb, as  it  meant  that  his  mother  was  working. 

Among  the  people  or  in  the  hush  moved  his  father, 
more  or  less  like  a  stage  hero  to  him,  sympathetic,  but 
strangely  unapproachable,  hidden  from  familiar  knowl- 
edge as  if  in  some  quaintly  fashioned  mantle  of  other 
times,  a  pleasing  and  dignified  figure,  but  moving 
only,  as  it  were,  to  the  breath  of  another's  inspiration. 

Humphrey  entered  college  early,  graduated  at 
twenty,  and  went  abroad  to  study  architecture  at  the 
Beaux  Arts.  In  Paris  he  discovered  Beauty  and 
learned  the  blague  of  the  schools.  Matronly  members 
of  the  now  rapidly  disintegrating  American  colony 
[33] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

made  him  at  home  in  their  exactly  similar  apartments, 
and  saw  to  it  that  he  ate  turkey  at  Christmas.  Through 
the  friendship  of  some  compatriots,  who  had  married 
into  the  Faubourg,  he  also  ventured,  now  and  then, 
(joli  gargon  et  ires  sympat hique  /)  into  French  society. 

When  he  was  twenty-three,  having  lived  abroad 
uninterruptedly  and  without  having  seen  his  parents 
for  three  years,  he  received  a  cable  summoning  him 
home.  His  father  was  seriously  ill. 

He  sailed  at  once,  and  during  the  six  days  on  board 
the  Deutschland  walked  the  decks  almost  unceasingly, 
in  the  midst  of  cold  and  fog  and  rain,  thinking  over 
the  relationship  of  father  and  son  which,  under  the 
menace  of  loss,  became  of  great  significance.  What  if 
it  should  be  too  late  for  him  ever  to  know  his  father! 
On  a  gray  November  morning,  the  Deutschland,  after 
a  long  delay  at  Quarantine,  began  to  steam  slowly  tow- 
ard New  York.  From  an  upper  deck  Humphrey 
watched,  in  vague  impatience,  the  outlines  of  the  coast. 
Suddenly  from  thin,  pink  eyelets  in  the  clouds  rays  of 
sunlight  slanted  down  over  distant  Coney  Island. 
The  sullen  water  warmed  with  tints  of  blue  and  green. 
The  bay  narrowed,  and  now  gulls  flew  circling  around 
the  ship.  On  the  shore  bleak  suburban  villas  showed 
over  banks  of  wintry  green.  Then  the  city  lifted  itself 
out  of  the  rose-flecked  fog,  shouting  across  the  water 
of  its  force  and  brutality.  Dim  towers  and  factory 
[34] 


chimneys,  bridges,  gas-tanks,  vast  office-buildings  and 
grain-elevators  strove,  in  their  glimpsed,  uncouth 
immensity,  to  drive  away  any  gracious  and  tender 
thoughts  of  home.  For  a  moment  Humphrey  felt 
that  coming  back  to  one's  own  land  was  less  like  cast- 
ing oneself  into  the  bosom  of  a  mother  than  saluting 
an  armed  and  mailed  commander  to  whom  one  owed 
allegiance.  Then  his  thoughts  fastened  themselves 
anew  on  his  own  anxieties.  The  boat  was  nearing 
the  dock  now.  He  looked  over  the  mass  of  faces  on 
the  pier,  but  could  see  none  that  was  familiar. 

Was  it  a  good  sign  or  a  bad  ?  He  could  not  be  sure. 
As  he  was  walking  down  the  gang-plank  he  caught 
sight  of  a  red-headed  young  man  whom  he  recognized 
as  the  assistant  of  their  family  physician.  This  person 
hurried  up  to  him  at  once. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  back,"  he  said.  "  Your  father's 
no  worse  to-day.  They  thought  I'd  better  come  down 
and  tell  you." 

Humphrey  cleared  his  throat  before  he  could  answer. 
The  strain  of  the  long  uncertainty  had  been  greater 
than  he  had  realized.  He  had  feared  graver  news. 

"Thanks,  very  much,  Giddings."  He  dreaded  to 
put  the  next  question — but  it  must  be  done. 

"He— he's  pretty  bad?" 

"We  think  he  will  live  another  day  or  two." 

"Ah!"  Humphrey  squared  his  shoulders.  Now 
[35] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

he  knew  the  worst,  and  could  compel  himself  to  face  it. 
He  thought  of  Dioneme. 

"And  my  mother?  Has  she  broken  down?  How 
is  she?" 

"Nearly  worn  out,  of  course — the  watching  and 
anxiety.  She  got  some  sleep  last  night.  We  gave  her 
a  little  morphine." 

Giddings  pushed  his  way  rapidly  through  the  crowd 
on  the  dock  and  Humphrey  followed  him. 

"  I've  got  a  taxi  here  for  you.  Just  jump  right  in  and 
go  along.  There'll  be  no  trouble  about  the  customs 
— foreign  resident,  you  know.  Man  here  with  me  will 
see  to  all  that  for  you ! " 

Giddings  rushed  Humphrey  into  the  taxi-cab, 
slammed  the  door,  and  before  the  latter  knew  it,  he 
was  rattling  through  the  Hoboken  streets  and  had 
crossed  the  ferry  on  his  way  home.  The  skies  were 
still  lowering,  the  sun  trying  vainly  to  force  its  way 
through  the  light  fog.  In  the  dingy  streets  near  the 
river  the  air  seemed  raw  and  tainted.  Yet,  though  it 
was  a  crowded  quarter,  there  was  little  noise  or  anima- 
tion, no  street  cries  or  babble  of  voices  or  children's 
laughter.  Humphrey  felt  that  he  had  forgotten  what 
New  York  was  like.  They  reached  Madison  Square, 
and  he  noted  the  changes  in  it  mechanically.  He 
wished  the  motor  would  go  faster.  They  turned  into 
Madison  Avenue,  and  soon  afterward  stopped  in  front 
[36] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

of  a  brownstone  house  with  a  high  old-fashioned 
"stoop."  Humphrey  jumped  out,  thrust  into  the 
driver's  hand  the  fare  ready  for  him,  and  rushed  up 
the  steps.  He  found  his  mother  in  the  long,  dim 
drawing-room.  She  said  nothing  when  she  saw  him, 
but  he  saw  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  he  took 
her  in  his  arms,  feeling  how  soft  and  tremulous  she 
was,  and  that  she  was  a  woman  and  must  be  com- 
forted. 

"Your  father  wants  to  see  you,"  she  managed  to 
say  finally.  "  He  is  in  his  old  room,  quite  quiet  now — 
and  without  any  pain.  You  must  go  to  him  at  once." 

"  Will  you  come  too  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  he  asked  to  see  you  alone." 

Humphrey  went  up  the  stairs  quickly,  but  with  a 
kind  of  heaviness  as  if  he  were  no  longer  a  young  man. 
To  his  surprise,  he  found  his  father  sitting  up,  or  rather 
half  reclining,  in  an  invalid's  chair.  An  old  gray 
army  blanket  covered  his  feet  and  knees,  and  there 
was  a  white  linen  pillow  under  his  head.  His  delicate, 
intellectual  face  was  yellow  and  drawn,  but  had  lost 
nothing  of  its  look  of  calmness  and  distinction.  Only 
his  blue  eyes  shone  with  a  kind  of  unnatural  brightness, 
and  there  was  a  tremor  in  his  hands. 

The  room  where  he  lay  was  almost  painful  in  its 
neatness  and  order,  there  was  little  to  suggest  illness; 
it  was  evident  that  the  real  battle  was  over;  science 
[37] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

and  humanity,  outmatched,  had  surrendered  to  their 
conqueror,  and  everything  was  ready  for  his  arrival. 

Humphrey  greeted  his  father  quietly,  controlling 
with  difficulty  the  lump  in  his  throat.  He  felt  as  if  the 
man  in  front  of  him  was,  in  some  sense,  a  stranger,  but 
a  stranger  whose  loss  would  be  irremediable,  because 
he  carried  in  himself  the  promise  of  being  a  friend. 

During  Wylde's  life  the  very  conventionality  of  his 
words  and  manner  had,  in  its  exaggeration,  made  a 
mystery  of  him.  He  cut  himself  off  from  his  fellow- 
creatures'  comprehension  by  his  scrupulous  conform- 
ity to  their  own  regulations.  They  were  baffled  by 
him  because  he  never  defied  them. 

Now,  at  the  last,  however,  this  strange,  impersonal 
disguise  seemed  slipping  away  from  him,  or  rather  it 
was  as  if  he  deliberately  clutched  it  with  both  hands 
and  tore  it  off  in  desperation.  The  soul,  at  its  mo- 
ment of  farewell,  would  not  be  hampered. 

"  Humphrey — my  dear  boy — "  he  said,  and  faltered. 
Humphrey  sat  down  beside  his  father  and  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  his.  In  spite  of  the  effort  he  made,  the  tears 
came  to  his  eyes. 

"You  have  been  away  a  long  time — three  years," 
said  the  older  man. 

"It  was  your  wish,  father." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  And  you  have  worked  well,  I  hear. 
It  is  hard  that  you  should  not  be  able  to  go  back, 
[38  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

but  your  place,  hereafter,  will  be  here,  with  your 
mother." 

"I  can  go  on  with  my  work,  now,  anywhere,"  said 
Humphrey.  "  I  need  never  leave  you  and  my  mother." 

"It  is  I  who  must  be  leaving  now." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  Humphrey 
struggling  not  to  give  way  to  his  emotion,  and  his  father 
staring  through  the  window  at  the  bare  tracery  of  a 
wistaria  vine  on  the  rear  wall  of  a  brick  house  facing 
them.  His  eyes  had  the  deep  and  clouded  look  of 
those  whose  gaze  is  turned  inward,  and  who  no  longer 
perceive  the  visible. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  future — and  what 
I  am  bequeathing  to  you,  Humphrey,"  he  said,  after  a 
time.  "Not  of  property," — and  he  made  a  slight,  im- 
patient gesture  with  his  hand — "  all  that  sort  of  thing 
you  will  find  in  order — it  will  explain  itself  and  my  old 
friend,  Martin,  who  is  one  of  my  executors  will  help 
you.  It  is  something  else."  He  paused  and  a  flame 
seemed  to  kindle  in  his  eyes.  "I  want  to  speak  to 
you  about  your  mother,"  he  said  finally. 

At  his  words  it  seemed  as  if,  with  a  last  wrench,  the 
disguise  of  years  had  fallen.  Humphrey  suddenly 
realized  that  the  whole  passion  and  mystery  of  his 
father's  life  had  been  his  wife. 

"  You  have  known  her  as  a  child,"  went  on  the  older 
man,  "and  accepted  her  as  a  child  accepts  the  peo- 
[39] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

pie  around  him,  without  analysis  or  comprehension, 
merely  as  beings  who  provide  and  support.  Later  you 
have  heard  of  her  reputation,  and,  perhaps,  been  proud 
— or  at  times  annoyed — at  having  your  mother  a 
famous  writer.  But  of  the  woman  herself  you  know 
nothing." 

"That  is  quite  true,"  said  Humphrey.     "I  went 
away  from  home  a  boy." 

"It  is  as  a  man  that  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you,  for 
I  want  you  to  understand  your  mother.  She  is  more 
than  maternal,  more  than  woman.  She  is,  first  and 
foremost,  a  genius,  a  creature  of  fire  and  fancy,  apart 
from  the  rest  of  us,  infinitely  strong  and  infinitely  weak. 
To  her  life  must  be  poetry."  He  paused,  fatigued 
with  the  effort  of  talking.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was 
half-dreamily  as  if  to  himself:  "Was  she  not  born 
on  a  midsummer  night,  in  an  island  of  the  sea,  and 
christened  from  a  book  of  Herrick's  songs!  Beauty 
is  the  essential  with  her,  and  the  world  of  men,  which 
is  unbeautiful,  becomes  at  times  intolerable.  To  es- 
cape from  it  she  might  seize  the  first  thing  that  came 
to  her  hand.  It  is  at  moments  like  these  she  must  be 
guarded.  Think  of  the  loneliness  of  a  soul  like  hers, 
perceiving  often  what  to  us  is  unknown!  The  anguish 
of  trying  to  reveal  it  to  us — and  seeing  us  staring 
stupidly,  incapable  of  comprehension!"  Again  he 
paused  and  Humphrey  waited  in  silence. 
[40] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"And  this  power  in  a  woman,  do  you  realize  what 
that  means,  the  frailness  of  the  body,  with  its  constant 
ebb  and  flow  of  nervous  will,  the  timidity  of  instinct, 
the  rack  of  intuition  ? 

"There  were  times  when  your  mother  was  a  mere 
quivering  child  in  my  arms,  times  when  she  soared  so 
far  above  me  that  even  the  wings  of  my  love  could  not 
reach  her.  But  even  when  coldest  and  most  remote 
she  touched  my  brain  with  a  kind  of  madness.  She 
was  forever  changing — like  the  moon! — I  called  her 
my  Moon  Lady." 

Wylde  seemed  to  forget  his  son  for  a  moment.  His 
head  fell  on  his  breast  and  with  closed  eyes  he  lived 
over  old  days  and  nights.  Finally  he  roused  himself. 

"Humphrey,"  he  said,  "you  must  take  care  of  your 
mother,  as  I  have  done — I  leave  her  in  your  charge." 

"I  will  do  my  best."  Humphrey  was  sensible  of 
much  that  was  unexpressed  in  his  father's  words  and 
would  have  liked  to  have  questioned  him  about  he 
knew  not  what,  but  now  the  sick  man  began  to  show 
signs  of  great  fatigue,  and  at  the  desire  of  the  nurse, 
who  came  in  just  then,  Humphrey  left  him. 

Two  days  afterward  he  died  peacefully,  with  his 
eyes  turned  on  Dioneme's  face. 


[41] 


CHAPTER  IV 

MORRIS  WYLDE  had  left  all  his  affairs  in  order, 
as  he  had  said,  and  after  his  death  Humphrey 
found  there  was  little  for  him  to  do  personally  in  re- 
gard to  settling  up  the  estate. 

His  mind  turned  toward  his  profession.  One  of 
his  Paris  friends  urged  him  to  open  an  office  with  him 
in  New  York,  and  this  he  finally  decided  to  do. 

He  regretted  that  he  could  not  have  finished  his 
course  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  but  hoped  that  practical 
experience  would  in  the  long  run  make  up  for  the  loss 
of  further  academical  training.  If  his  mother  had 
proposed  living  in  Paris  he  might  have  gone  on  with 
his  studies  there,  but  she  did  not  do  so,  probably  be- 
cause with  her  usual  self-absorption  the  idea  did  not 
come  to  her. 

Moreover,  Humphrey  had  once  heard  her  say  that 
she  hated  Paris  and  could  never  work  there.  He  put 
the  whole  matter  aside  therefore  as  of  small  importance. 

The  first  year  of  their  mourning  passed  not  too 

unhappily.     Life  with  his  mother  was  interesting  to 

Humphrey.     It  was  more  forming  a  new  relation  than 

resuming  an  old  one,  and  Dioneme  did  not  lack  fas- 

[42] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

cination,  even  for  her  son.  Without  making  any  con- 
scious effort  he  became  necessary  to  her.  She  liked 
to  talk  to  him;  he  never  bored  her,  either  with  in- 
trusive youth  or  lack  of  understanding,  and  Dioneme's 
capacity  for  boredom  extended  beyond  the  bar  of 
blood  or  affection. 

The  individual  on  whom  for  the  moment  she  flashed 
the  light  of  her  imagination  was  always  interesting 
to  her,  no  matter  of  how  common  a  clay  he  was  really 
made — but  woe  to  the  one  who  sat  temporarily  in 
darkness  and  clamored  for  attention  out  of  his  turn! 
Humphrey  never  made  demands,  so  his  society  was 
always  acceptable.  The  maternal  in  Dioneme  was 
a  thing  of  intermittence.  On  the  whole,  Humphrey 
was  probably  dearer  to  her  because  he  was  Humphrey 
than,  because  he  was  her  son. 

It  never  occurred  to  her  that  there  might  be  any 
unsuspected  corner  of  his  mind,  anything  in  his  char- 
acter with  which  she  was  not  in  touch  instinctively 
and  through  the  mere  tie  of  nature. 

She  would  have  been  amazed,  for  instance,  if  she  had 
known  how  much  he  thought  of  Linda  Arnold  after 
that  one  meeting  with  her.  It  surprised  the  young 
man  himself  indeed.  He  speculated  upon  the  slight 
information  his  mother  had  given  him  as  to  her  life 
and  environment,  and  it  pleased  him,  also,  to  recall  her 
face.  He  saw  again  the  rose-flushed  cheeks,  the  slant 
[43] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

of  the  eyebrows,  which  gave  such  an  expression  of  in- 
nocent mockery.  She  had  looked  gentle  yet  disdain- 
ful. Probably  many  men  were  in  love  with  her.  He 
wondered  if,  by  any  possibility,  she  could  be  engaged 
to  one  of  them,  but  this  supposition  he  dismissed  im- 
patiently. 

Of  course  he  would  see  her  again.  New  York,  in  a 
sense,  was  small  and  they  undoubtedly  had  friends  in 
common.  If  they  did  not  meet  in  one  way,  he  would 
see  that  they  did  in  another,  but  he  would  wait  to  test 
the  kindliness  of  fate  before  taking  matters  in  his  own 
hands.  Chance  was  kind  to  him,  however.  One 
evening,  while  he  was  waiting  in  Sherry's  hall  for  the 
man  with  whom  he  was  to  dine,  he  caught  sight  of 
Linda.  She  recognized  him  at  once,  and  the  quality 
of  her  bow  encouraged  him  to  go  up  and  speak  to  her. 
To  his  surprise  he  found  that  he  was  a  little  nervous. 
Linda  in  the  panoply  of  evening  dress,  with  bare 
white  throat,  was  almost  too  beautiful,  formidable  in 
her  beauty.  And  in  her  innocent  suavity  and  grace, 
her  lack  of  self-consciousness,  her  gentle  insouciance 
there  was  a  quality  of  perfection  which  seemed  to  set 
her  entirely  apart  from  him,  as  if  she  were  not  flesh 
and  blood,  but  some  exquisitely  fragile  work  of  art. 

"How  is  your  mother?"  asked  the  girl,  almost  im- 
mediately, and  Humphrey,  with  an  effort,  conquered 
his  puzzling  nervousness. 

[44] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Well — thank  you — a  little  tired — nervous  per- 
haps!" 

"  I'm  going  to  see  her  on  Wednesday,"  said  Linda, 
her  eyes  distant  and  contemplative.  It  was  evident 
that  the  time  would  seem  long  to  her  until  then. 
Humphrey  realized  that  he  did  not  exist  for  her  ex- 
cept as  the  son  of  Dioneme.  But  he  said  nothing, 
only  continued  to  look  at  Linda  fixedly  as  if  he 
would  wrest  from  her  face  the  mystery  of  its  beauty, 
and  its  unlikeness  to  the  faces  of  all  other  young 
girls. 

Just  then  they  were  joined  by  a  tall,  thin  man  of 
thirty,  with  fair  hair  parted  in  the  middle  of  his  narrow 
pointed  head,  a  high  nose,  and  an  eyeglass. 

"Do  you  two  know  each  other!"  he  exclaimed,  with 
amiable  familiarity.  "How  amusing!" 

Humphrey  had  met  Walter  Jackson  in  Paris  and 
shunned  him  ever  since  with  painstaking  artifice. 
Now  he  breathed  to  himself  a  short  profane  comment. 
Of  course  no  one  could  take  such  a  person  seriously! 
A  moment  later  he  was  painfully  surprised  to  see  that 
Miss  Arnold's  manner  to  the  intruder  was  of  an  un- 
feigned cordiality.  They  seemed  to  be  on  the  footing 
of  old  friends  with  much  in  common.  Humphrey 
reviewed  hastily  in  his  mind  the  facts  he  knew  about 
Jackson,  regretting  that  they  were  so  slightly  condem- 
natory. Certainly  there  was  nothing  definitely  against 
[45] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

him.  He  was  a  gentleman — by  birth  at  least — knew 
everybody — even  the  unknown. 

Relinquishing  the  hope  of  finding  something  to  be 
harshly  criticised  in  Jackson's  life,  Humphrey  was 
more  than  ever  willing  to  proclaim  the  man's  unattrac- 
tiveness.  Or  was  there  only  something  antipathetic 
to  him  personally  in  Jackson's  individuality  ? 

"Done  with  the  Beaux  Arts,  are  you  Wylde?"  the 
latter  asked  now,  with  the  amiability  which  is  uncon- 
scious of  showing  its  basis  of  patronage. 

"It's  done  with  me.  I've  been  in  New  York  for 
a  year." 

"Really!"  exclaimed  the  other,  his  mind  plainly 
elsewhere.  "Stunning  woman — that  widow  from 
Pittsburg,"  he  said  to  Linda.  "She's  coming  in 
now." 

The  widow  with  a  restaurant  manner  of  elaborate 
unconsciousness  passed  them  in  a  glitter  of  steel  pail- 
lettes and  a  whiff  of  strong  perfume. 

"She  doesn't  look  exactly  like  a  lady,"  observed 
Linda,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"Perhaps  not — but  how — exactly — would  you  de- 
fine a  lady?"  asked  Jackson,  with  an  air  of  brilliant 
playfulness. 

"  Some  one  who  speaks  gently,  tells  the  truth,  and  is 
never  afraid,"  said  Humphrey  off-hand. 

To  Jackson  this  explanation  was  incomprehensible, 
[46] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

whether  taken  seriously  or  as  a  joke.     His  gaze  roved 
again  over  the  assembly. 

"There  come  the  Bertie  Clarks  at  last!"  he  ex- 
claimed to  Linda,  ignoring  Humphrey.  "Do  you 
see  them  ? — they're  over  there  in  that  corner.  You're 
dining  with  them,  too,  aren't  you  ?  Come  along." 

He  swept  her  imperiously  away,  but  she  nodded  to 
Humphrey,  and  he  distinguished  some  vague  last  word 
— a  message  to  his  mother,  of  course! 

A  moment  afterward  he  caught  sight  of  the  man 
with  whom  he  was  himself  to  dine,  and  joining  him 
they  went  into  the  restaurant. 

But  he  was,  of  a  sudden,  discontented  and  irritable, 
no  longer  hungry  even.  His  senses  rebelled  against 
the  smell  and  taste  of  food,  against  the  banal  music, 
and  the  sight  of  the  large,  over-dressed  women  at  the 
table  next  to  him,  trying  in  varying,  but  universally 
misguided  ways,  to  be  sirens. 

He  could  not  look  at  Linda  Arnold  at  all,  but  caught 
occasional  unwelcome  glimpses  of  Jackson's  high, 
pointed  head. 

It  was  the  day  before  Christmas  before  he  saw  the 
girl  again.  By  that  time  she  was  already  on  a  footing 
of  something  approaching  intimacy  with  his  mother. 
He  had  come  from  his  office  a  little  earlier  than  usual 
to  find  Dioneme  with  Linda  and  three  men  taking  tea 
by  the  drawing-room  fire. 

[47] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

The  male  visitors  were  old,  young,  and  middle-aged 
respectively — easily  classified,  as  their  intelligences 
were  on  a  scale  with  their  years.  They  admired  their 
hostess,  with  equal  fervor,  from  their  various  stages  of 
perception. 

The  room  was  filled  with  ribbon-bedecked  baskets 
of  flowers,  offerings  of  the  season,  filling  the  air  with 
strong,  hot-house  perfumes. 

"  Why  need  a  rose-bush  wear  a  blue  ribbon  because 
it's  Christmas?"  asked  Humphrey,  sitting  down  by 
Linda. 

"It's  not  only  on  Christmas!"  said  the  girl.  "It  's 
all  the  year.  Paris  fashions  for  flowers ! " 

"We'll  see  ostrich  plumes  and  paillettes  on  them, 
next!"  observed  the  youngest  of  the  three  men  visitors, 
spurring  his  feeble  wit,  as  always,  along  the  trail  made 
by  some  one  else — "or  fur!  Think  of  the  note  a  bit 
of  chinchilla  would  give  to  a  pot  of  hyacinths ! " 

"Your  mother  has  so  many  friends!"  observed 
Linda  to  Humphrey.  "The  room  upstairs  is  just  as 
full  of  flowers  as  this  one,  and  it  is  only  the  day  before 
Christmas!" 

"  I  think  you're  capable  of  sending  them  all  yourself!" 
Humphrey  said  with  a  smile.  "  Sure  you  didn't,  now  ?  " 

Linda  flushed.  She  felt  that  her  sentiment  for  Mrs. 
Wylde  was  being  touched  upon  too  lightly. 

"You  are  most  unlike  your  mother!"  she  said  to 
[48] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Humphrey  irrelevantly  and  with  unkind  intention. 
"It  seems  strange  that  you  should  be  her  son."  Hum- 
phrey laughed  and  watched  Linda  intently.  It  did 
not  really  matter  what  she  said  so  long  as  he  could  sit 
and  look  at  her. 

Dioneme  was  talking  about  art  with  her  oldest 
visitor,  and  had  entirely  forgotten  to  give  her  son  his 
tea,  but  he  never  missed  it.  The  shadows  from  the 
firelight — the  room  was  otherwise  very  dim — quivered 
on  Linda's  delicately  oval  cheek. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  me  come  to  see  you  some- 
time?" asked  Humphrey  abruptly. 

Linda  was  startled — she  didn't  know  why.  After 
her  recognition  of  Humphrey  as  a  very  good-looking 
young  man  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting,  he 
had  ceased  to  exist  for  her,  except  as  a  casually  recalled 
appurtenance  of  his  mother's. 

Now,  surprisingly,  he  was  proposing  to  become  an 
active  agent  on  his  own  account,  forcing  himself,  un- 
asked and  not  particularly  desired,  on  her  own  ter- 
ritorial reserves. 

"I  should  be  delighted  to  see  you,"  she  finally  said, 
formally  and  without  much  warmth.  "I'm  always 
at  home  after  five." 

"So  I  see!"  replied  Humphrey  quizzically,  looking 
at  the  clock,  which  pointed  to  quarter  before  six.  "I 
will  come  on  Wednesday." 

[49] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"But  that  is  the  day  after  to-morrow!"  exclaimed 
Linda,  her  accent  still  unflattering. 

"  To-morrow  is  Christmas.  I  didn't  like  to  suggest 
coming  Christmas!" 

Linda's  indignation  (though  she  could  with  difficulty 
have  formulated  a  reason  for  it)  gave  her  back  her 
presence  of  mind. 

"  I'm  surprised  that  there  was  anything  you  hesitated 
to  suggest!"  she  said  coldly,  and  felt  how  unfortunate 
it  was  that  a  woman  like  Dioneme  Wylde  should  have 
such  an  odious  son. 

But  suddenly  Humphrey's  manner  changed,  and 
his  voice  grew  grave.  "You  mustn't  be  angry,"  he 
said.  "I'm  only  trying  to  show  how  much  I  want  to 
see  you  again." 

Linda  looked  at  him  squarely  and  was  forced, 
though  against  her  will,  to  admit  that  he  had  nice  eyes 
— which  is  going  a  good  way  for  a  young  girl ! 

"  Where  did  you  know  Walter  Jackson  ?"  she  asked, 
changing  the  subject  with  a  gracious  air  of  being  willing 
to  condone  past  offences. 

"In  Paris,"  replied  Humphrey  briefly. 

Linda  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  ask  Humphrey  what 
he  thought  of  him — but  restrained  it.  After  all,  what 
did  any  one  else's  opinion  of  Walter  Jackson  matter, 
least  of  all  that  of  a  comparative  stranger? 

"  Great  friend  of  yours  ?  "  inquired  Humphrey. 
[50] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"  Our  families  have  known  each  other  always,"  an- 
swered Linda  with  dignity. 

Here  Dioneme  discovered  that  Humphrey  had  had 
no  tea  and  the  sympathy  for  him  became  universal. 

"Let  me  ring  for  more  hot  water!"  volunteered  the 
middle-aged  man,  dissembling  his  rheumatism  as  he 
hastened  to  the  bell. 

"Here's  some  whiskey,  Wylde!"  said  the  youngest 
visitor,  indicating  a  decanter  which  stood  on  the  table 
near  Dioneme.  "Your  mother  and  I  have  been  cele- 
brating the  season!" 

"Thanks,  I'll  wait  for  the  tea,"  he  replied  shortly. 
The  hobgoblin  thought,  always  in  the  back  of  his 
brain,  suddenly  took  entire  possession  of  him.  He 
would  have  strangled  it  secretly,  if  he  could,  refusing 
to  hear  it,  but  the  malign  thing  was  too  strong. 

After  a  few  moments  he  moved  away  from  Linda's 
side,  yielding  his  place  to  one  of  the  visitors,  and  sat 
down  where  he  could  see  his  mother  more  distinctly. 
She  and  the  oldest  man  had  resumed  their  discussion. 

"Every  one  defines  genius,"  said  Dioneme,  "yet 
we  never  learn  what  it  is."  An  unusual  color  burned 
in  her  cheeks,  her  voice  was  perhaps  more  highly 
pitched  than  usual. 

"  Genius  is  not  as  rare  as  people  imagine,"  said  the 
old  man,  looking  at  Dioneme  as  if  she  were  only  a 
favored  and  precocious  child.  "  We  see  it  around  us 
[51] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

everywhere,  in  minute,  intermittent  flashes,  like  fire- 
flies on  a  summer  night.  It  is  all  lost — or  most  of  it — 
goes  for  nothing — even  an  illumination! — The  real 
phenomenon  is  genius  as  a  positive  and  continuing 
force." 

Humphrey  wondered  that  no  one  seemed  to  notice 
how  excited  his  mother  was.  When  she  spoke  it  was 
with  a  kind  of  reckless  animation,  encouraged  and 
applauded  by  the  admiring  attention  of  her  hearers. 
She  talked  of  the  futility  of  effort,  the  forever-evading 
dream.  "There  are  moments,"  she  said  finally, 
"  when  I  have  a  kind  of  vision — a  divinity  in  art  not 
yet  revealed  to  us.  I  divine  some  standard  by  which 
all  men's  accomplishments,  up  till  now,  will  seem  piti- 
able. What  do  we  know?  Velasquez  was  puerile, 
perhaps,  Beethoven  mediocre — even  Shakespeare  in- 
significant. There  may  be  a  higher  Olympus!" 

Her  fervor  and  the  magnetism  that  was  in  her  made 
what  she  said  impressive.  Only  the  youngest  man 
stirred  uneasily,  abashed  before  a  form  of  imagination 
he  could  honor  but  not  comprehend. 

"If  the  vision  is  too  great  it  may  paralyze  achieve- 
ment," said  the  middle-aged  man. 

"Nothing  can  paralyze  genius,"  said  the  oldest. 
"For  genius  cannot  be  denied.  It  goes  out  into  the 
world,  like  a  child  into  a  field  of  flowers,  and  gath- 
ers what  it  will.  But  it  must  never  be  restrained  or 
[52] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

directed  or  it  will  lose  its  fresh  and  divine  impulses. 
The  part  of  its  wisest  guardian  is  only  to  say,  at  the 
end, '  What  beautiful  things  you  have  gathered! ' " 

"But  you — Mrs.  Wylde,"  said  the  youngest  man, 
venturing  to  break  into  the  conversation,  "how  do 
you  know  so  much  about  the  human  heart  ?  " 

"By  the  little  lantern  of  Self,"  said  Dioneme. 

"By  that  lantern,  'Self,'"  said  the  old  man, "each 
individual  may  show  us  a  new  world." 

While  they  talked  Humphrey  tortured  himself  with 
suspicion  which  was  almost  certainty.  He  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  his  mother's  feverish  face;  even 
Linda  was  no  longer  in  his  thoughts.  He  longed  to 
drive  away  all  the  visitors  so  that  he  might  be  alone 
with  Dioneme.  Perhaps  then  he  could  persuade  her 
to  lie  down  and  rest  for  a  while.  "  Somewhere  in  the 
dark,"  he  thought  instinctively,  his  painful  impulse 
being  to  hide  her  from  observation.  Linda's  infatua- 
tion for  her,  and  the  admiration  of  the  three  men,  be- 
came, little  by  little,  unbearably  distasteful  to  him. 
He  watched  Dioneme's  animation  die  out  and  her  eyes 
grow  heavy.  Finally,  Linda  rose  to  go  and  Humphrey 
went  out  with  her  to  put  her  into  her  waiting  motor-car. 
It  had  begun  to  snow  and  the  electric  street  lights 
shone,  in  the  early  dark,  through  a  mist  of  gently  fall- 
ing flakes.  The  air  was  indescribably  soft,  and  one 
could  imagine  that  the  noises  of  the  city  were  muffled, 
[53] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

even  as  its  outlines  were  blurred,  and  that  a  strange 
spell  of  beauty  and  silence  lay  in  the  storm. 

"Until  Wednesday!"  Humphrey  reminded  Linda 
as  he  said  good-by — but  even  she  noticed  that  he  had 
changed  in  some  inexplicable  way.  Now  he  was  pre- 
occupied, looked  at  her  as  if  he  were  considering  a 
separation  instead  of  a  meeting. 

If  she  had  been  less  under  the  influence  of  Dioneme's 
recent  company  she  might  have  been  slightly  piqued, 
but,  for  the  moment,  there  was  room  for  but  one  obses- 
sion in  her  soul.  She  had  the  unselfish  capacity  for 
absorption  in  another,  which  makes  hero-worship  pos- 
sible. Behind  the  charm  of  Dioneme,  too,  was  always 
the  charm  of  her  books,  into  which  the  best  and  wisest 
of  herself  had  been  compressed.  To  meet  she  was, 
perhaps,  no  more  than  an  interesting  and  unusual 
woman;  in  her  writings  there  were  glimpses  of  the 
seer. 

When  Linda  had  gone  Humphrey  did  not  return  to 
the  drawing-room,  but  went  upstairs  to  his  mother's 
sitting-room.  From  there  he  could  hear  the  murmur 
of  voices,  below  and  the  empty  laugh  of  the  youngest 
man,  helping  out  his  wits  when  words,  presumably, 
failed  him. 

The  clock  struck  seven  and  still  the  talk  went  on. 
Dioneme's  voice  was  inaudible  though  he  strained 
his  attention  to  catch  it.  They  seemed  to  be  amusing 
[  54  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

themselves  very  well.  Strange  that  he  could  not  hear 
his  mother's  voice.  Why  was  she  not  talking  ?  Had 
she  grown  drowsy — what  with  the  heat  of  the  fire 
and  everything  ? 

Once  again  he  fought  with  the  hobgoblin  thought 
now  so  much  to  the  fore  in  his  brain,  and,  with  boyish 
contempt,  characterized  himself  as  morbid  and  imagi- 
native. If  he  was  not  mistaken,  he  had,  at  all  events, 
exaggerated.  A  stir  and  the  moving  of  chairs  in  the 
room  below  indicated  that  the  visitors  were  about  to 
depart.  He  heard  them  come  out  into  the  hall,  repeat- 
ing their  farewells  to  Dioneme,  whom  he  pictured 
standing  at  the  drawing-room  door.  Did  she  waver, 
ever  so  slightly,  as  she  stood  ?  Again  the  monstrous 
fancy  leaped  out  at  him.  He  must  be  what  old-fash- 
ioned people  called  "possessed."  Now  the  front  door 
opened,  a  faint  descendant  of  the  cold  wind  which 
entered  swept  up  the  stairs  and  drifted  into  the  sitting- 
room.  A  moment  later  the  jovial  men's  voices  ceased, 
the  door  closed.  His  mother  would  be  coming  up- 
stairs directly  now. 

Humphrey  felt  that  there  was  nothing  for  him  to 
say  to  her,  so  he  went  off  to  his  own  room,  paralyzed 
by  his  own  uncertainties,  yet,  in  some  indefinable  way, 
aware  of  the  ponderous,  on-moving  machine  of  what 
must  be. 

[55] 


CHAPTER  V 

AS  before,  after  a  violent  outbreak,  the  hobgoblin 
JL\.  fear  ceased  to  trouble  Humphrey  for  a  while, 
and  everything  about  him  became  normal  and  un- 
disquieting  once  more. 

His  first  visit  to  Linda  had  been  the  beginning  of 
others,  as  was  to  have  been  expected.  On  the  occa- 
sion of  the  fourth  he  perceived,  tardily  even  then,  that 
he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her,  and  set  himself  resolutely 
to  the  task  of  conquest. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  nor  hesitancy; 
Linda  was  the  girl  he  wanted  for  his  future  wife.  The 
thing  of  instant  importance  was  to  win  her  love.  He 
could  afford  to  disregard  financial  considerations,  or 
so  he  felt,  as  his  future  was  more  or  less  assured.  His 
father's  estate  had  been  willed  entirely  to  Dioneme, 
leaving  it  to  her  to  provide,  as  she  would  surely  do,  for 
their  son.  Moreover,  Humphrey  was  doing  well  in  his 
profession.  All  things  pointed  to  prosperity  in  life  and 
in  love. 

But  presently  he  became  aware,  with  some  bewilder- 
ment, that  there  was  an  obstacle  in  his  path — and  that 
the  incredible  one  of  Walter  Jackson.  Twice  he  and 
Jackson  had  taken  a  grudging  tea  together  at  Miss 
[56] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Arnold's  table,  once  he  had  observed  them  chatting 
with  intimacy  and  absorption  in  some  one's  opera  box, 
and  once  they  had  ridden  past  him  in  the  park,  and 
he  had  felt  a  bit  of  gravel  thrown  up  by  their  horses 
hoofs  strike  against  his  cheek. 

Astounding  as  it  seemed  Miss  Arnold  seemed  to 
enjoy  Jackson's  society.  In  the  light  of  his  rival's 
apparent  successes  Humphrey  began  to  think  disparag- 
ingly of  his  own  attractions.  What  did  it  matter  if 
ladies  of  the  Faubourg  had  found  him  "  joli  gargon 
et  tres  sympathique"  (a  characterization  which  had, 
indeed,  always  suggested  a  bright  young  barber  to 
his  mind),  or  what  availed  his  subsequent  modest 
triumphs,  if  Jackson  was  to  outstrip  him  now! 

He  was  feeling  unusually  downcast  and  lacking  in 
self-confidence  one  day,  when  he  suddenly  met  Linda 
as  they  were  both  coming  out  early  from  a  Sunday  con- 
cert at  the  New  Theatre. 

"  Can  I  get  your  car  for  you  ?"  he  asked,  when  they 
had  exchanged  greetings. 

"I'm  walking.  It's  such  a  nice  day  I  thought  it 
would  be  pleasant  going  across  the  park." 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  that  would  be  pleas- 
anter!"  said  Humphrey,  and  the  humble  prayer  of 
the  true  lover  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Won't  you   come  too?"  said   Linda  in  dizzying 
response  to  this  look,  and  they  set  forth  together. 
[57] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

The  park  was  covered  with  a  light  fall  of  snow  and 
every  tree  and  shrub  wore  a  coating  of  crystal  ice. 
Fairylike  blue  mist  veiled  the  hollows,  purple  shadows 
lay  on  the  drifts  under  the  pines  and  the  setting  sun 
shone  palely  gold  in  the  western  sky.  The  air  was 
so  pure  and  cold  and  still  that  it  was  more  sense- 
stirring  than  the  most  subtle  perfume.  Some  hardy 
sparrows  twittered  among  the  icicles. 

"  Ripping  day !"  said  Humphrey  blithely  and  inade- 
quately. 

He  and  Linda  swung  along  the  hard,  frozen  walks, 
keeping  step  together  in  an  intoxicating  rhythm.  This 
was  a  taste  of  the  joy  of  life — the  girl  you  loved  alone 
with  you  in  the  great,  free,  out-of-door  world,  where 
there  was  no  drawing-room  cunning  or  artificiality. 

They  talked  about  the  concert.  Humphrey,  who 
was  not  musical,  said  that  the  orchestra,  clustered 
around  the  two  immense  electric  lamps  suspended  from 
the  ceiling,  had  seemed  to  him  like  a  swarm  of  giant 
insects,  attracted  by  the  light,  humming  and  buzzing, 
beetle-like  some  of  them,  with  waving  antennae  of 
scraping  bows.  Linda  laughed  and  then  frowned. 
Had  not  Humphrey  appreciated  the  wonderful  song 
music  of  the  second  movement  in  Tschaikovsky's  Sym- 
phony in  F  Minor?  Humphrey  listened  respectfully 
to  her  opinions.  Like  most  American  men  he  was 
inclined  to  defer  to  a  woman's  judgment  when  it  came 
[58] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

to  an  art  of  which  he  knew  little.  Linda  did  not  talk 
to  him  of  architecture. 

"I've  been  to  five  concerts  this  last  week,"  said  the 
girl  with  naive  pride,  "and  to  the  opera  two  nights, 
and  one  matinee." 

"You  do  too  much,"  observed  Humphrey.  "You 
will  wear  yourself  out."  This  hardly  perceptible  ap- 
proach to  proprietary  interest  gave  him  a  thrill  of  joy. 

"Do  I  look  worn  out?"  asked  Linda  with  some 
coquetry. 

Humphrey  turned  so  that  he  could  take  a  better 
view  of  his  companion  and  bent  slightly  toward  her. 

Slim  and  strong  and  radiant,  with  cheeks  like  the 
petals  of  a  rose,  she  looked  at  him  with  sweet,  chal- 
lenging eyes. 

"You  look  like  the  morning  of  the  world,"  he  said 
impulsively,  and  her  eyes  fell. 

When  they  reached  Linda's  house  they  found  her  sis- 
ter and  Walter  Jackson  in  the  drawing-room.  Linda's 
sister  was  forty,  plain  of  face,  but  perfect  of  figure, 
consummately  well-dressed,  with  no  originality  what- 
ever. She  had  pale,  kind  eyes,  a  very  long,  straight 
nose,  and  was  called  Julie  (having  been  christened  at  a 
period  when  only  names  ending  in  ie  were  thought 
pretty  and  feminine) .  Her  interests  in  life  were  Linda, 
the  town  and  country  houses,  the  Sarah  Emmons  Mis- 
sion for  Seamen  and  the  giving  and  attending  of  din- 
[59] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

ners.  Her  father,  though  near  to  her  most  of  the  time 
in  the  flesh,  had  succeeded  in  removing  himself  from 
her  sphere  as  far  as  volition  and  action  were  concerned, 
so  he  is  not  included.  As  Linda  and  Humphrey 
entered  the  room  it  was  caught  in  a  glowing  mesh  of 
varying  lights :  rose  flicker  of  the  fire,  white  glow  from 
the  lamps,  the  setting  sun  pouring  in  a  golden  flood 
through  the  still  uncurtained  windows — all  crossing 
and  melting  into  each  other  until,  with  the  flush  of  the 
roses  and  azaleas  everywhere,  there  was  a  very  riot  of 
color  and  radiance. 

The  perfume  of  flowers,  the  faint  aroma  of  tea,  and 
the  odor  of  Jackson's  cigarette  were  in  the  air.  On 
the  hearth  lay  Linda's  Irish  terrier. 

The  Arnolds  had  moved  up-town  from  their  old 
house  on  Thirty-eighth  Street  only  three  years  before, 
moved  by  the  instinct  which  impels  New  Yorkers  ever 
onward.  Their  new  house  faced  the  park,  and  from 
its  windows  they  looked  out  over  the  old  reservoir, 
which  in  its  age  and  retirement  from  active  duty  was 
sometimes  known  as  a  lake.  Sea-gulls  flew  in  from 
the  ocean  to  rest  on  the  calm  blue  surface  of  this  lake, 
or  rose  to  sweep  above  it  in  circles,  gleaming  snow- 
white  in  the  sun.  On  stormy  days  the  waters  lashed 
themselves  into  an  imitation  of  fury,  and  dashed,  gray- 
green  and  tipped  with  foam,  against  the  artificial 
banks,  and  when  it  grew  cold  this  pretence  of  a  lake 
[60] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

was  frozen  over,  irregularly  and  with  hummocks  and 
cracks  and  crevices  like  a  miniature  Polar  Sea. 

Around  it  ran  a  path  and  below  that  a  bridle  road. 
Lower  still  was  the  carriage-drive  and  the  walk,  and 
then  came  the  street  level  and  the  asphalt  of  Fifth 
Avenue.  Looking  up  from  the  Arnolds'  front  door, 
the  whole  had  the  effect  of  some  complicated  mechani- 
cal toy,  the  motors  and  omnibuses  and  drays  moving 
along  the  avenue,  then  the  nurses  and  perambulators 
and  tramps  on  the  park  walk,  then  the  smoothly  roll- 
ing victorias  and  hansoms,  then,  higher  still,  the  gallop- 
ing horses,  working  with  a  stiff,  jerky  motion  against 
the  sky-line,  and,  finally,  drolly  silhouetted,  the  earnest 
pedestrians  who  were  making  the  tour  of  the  reservoir 
for  a  constitutional.  All  this  motion  seemed  to  have 
been  started  by  some  hidden  spring;  one  felt  that  at 
any  moment  it  might  run  down  and  have  to  be  wound 
up  again;  as  if,  some  day,  all  these  amusing  little  men 
and  women  and  horses  would  get  out  of  order  and  be 
unable  to  go  through  their  automatic  motions. 

When  it  came  to  furnishing  their  new  house  the 
Arnolds  found  themselves  embarrassed.  On  Thirty- 
eighth  Street  they  had  lived  comfortably  and  envied 
by  their  neighbors  among  the  chairs  and  tables,  the 
bibelots  and  oil-paintings  accumulated  before  1890. 

But  their  architect  and  decorator  was  conscientious 
and  determined;  Louis  the  Sixteenth  was  his  god  and 
[61] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

he  acknowledged  no  other.  The  new  house  must  be 
a  Louis  Sixteenth  house.  So  the  old-gold  upholstered 
satin  furniture,  the  inlaid  chairs,  the  malachite  tables, 
the  carved  mahogany  dining  furniture,  the  painting  by 
Vibert,  the  Dresden  china,  and  the  piano  lamps  van- 
ished to  adorn  the  homes  of  country  relations,  and  the 
Arnolds  moved  into  a  perfectly  complete,  harmonious, 
and,  it  must  be  admitted,  beautiful  abode. 

If  Walter  Jackson  was  annoyed  at  seeing  Humphrey 
he  was  too  consciously  a  man  of  the  world  to  show  it. 
Nevertheless,  he  made  a  mental  note  of  his  entrance 
with  Linda  and  marked  it  as  important  and  something 
to  be  seriously  considered.  For  Jackson  had  picked 
out  Linda  as,  taking  everything  altogether,  the  wife 
who  would  be  most  what  he  wished.  She  was  rich, 
of  the  best  family  and  position,  good-looking,  and  what 
was  more  important,  healthy,  amiable  and,  he  thought, 
not  too  clever,  which  is  to  say  eccentric.  In  short,  she 
would  in  every  way  advance  his  own  importance  in 
New  York,  and  be  not  too  disagreeable  a  drag  on  him 
personally.  Carefully  as  he  prepared  himself  for  every 
new  step  in  life,  Jackson  made  ready  for  matrimony. 
He  had  little  doubt  of  his  success,  once  he  seriously  be- 
gan to  make  love.  He  was  experienced  with  women 
and  attractive  and  distinguished  personally,  with  his 
tall,  thin  blondeness,  his  smoothly  shaven  face,  and  his 
eye-glass.  Rivals,  however,  would  be  very  unwelcome 
[62] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

to  him,  and  while  he  did  not  really  think  seriously  of 
Humphrey  as  a  rival,  he  felt  that  he  was  not  an  alto- 
gether negligible  factor.  Jackson  moved  along  the 
lower  altitudes  of  life  with  a  calmness  of  judgment 
which  was  as  good  as  intellect,  and  a  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose as  great  as  genius.  To  be  rich  and  influential 
in  New  York  society  was  his  aim,  and  everything  was 
sacrificed  to  its  attainment.  Had  he  ever  given  way  to 
an  unfashionable  impulse?  No  one  knew.  Was  he 
capable  of  a  passion  ?  His  acquaintances  asked  it  of 
each  other  in  their  moments  of  psychological  research 
and  found  no  reply.  Everywhere  they  went  they  en- 
countered Walter  Jackson,  carefully  dressed  and  im- 
perturbable, with  perfect  manners  and  a  ready  smile. 
He  was,  though  non-essential,  a  part  of  New  York. 
His  business  was  in  Wall  Street;  he  belonged  to  a  firm 
of  small  conservative  brokers.  In  commercial  and 
down-town  circles  he  was  regarded  as  a  "  safe  "  young 
man  and  a  hard  worker.  Financial  magnates  approved 
of  him  ponderously  while  admitting  he  would  never 
dictate  to  corporations. 

As  he  and  Linda,  Julie  and  Humphrey  sat  around 
the  tea-table  together  the  latter  was  convinced  that  of 
such  a  company  nothing  could  come  but  a  probably 
painful  and  fruitless  effort  to  make  interesting  con- 
versation. After  a  short  stay,  therefore,  he  removed 
the  large  spongy  paws  of  "Paddy,"  the  terrier,  from 
[63] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

his  lap  and  rose  to  go.  No  one  tried  to  detain  him. 
Linda,  inevitably,  sent  a  long  message  to  his  mother, 
and  he  found  himself  again  in  the  wintry  streets  which 
were  now  growing  dark.  He  stopped  in  at  his  club, 
had  a  glass  of  soda  with  his  friend,  Norris  Peters,  who 
was,  as  he  expressed  it,  "on  the  water  wagon,"  and 
reached  home  at  half-past  seven.  All  the  time,  even 
while  he  was  discussing  the  advantages  of  metallic 
door  trims  for  school-houses  and  office-buildings  with 
Peters,  his  whole  being  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  Linda, 
the  grace  and  sweetness  of  her,  the  high  spirit  and  the 
innocence.  At  the  thought  of  her  soft,  curved  mouth, 
a  thrill  went  through  him.  He  had  never  been  in  love 
before — at  any  rate,  not  like  this! 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  Dioneme  at  her 
writing-table.  Amid  billows  of  proof-sheets  she  was 
unusually  and  conventionally  established  on  a  small 
island  of  silver-edged  blotting  tablet,  answering  notes. 

"Is  that  you,  Humphrey?"  she  said,  looking  up, 
plainly  worn  and  irritated  with  her  task.  "Do  you 
want  to  dine  with  old  Miss  Godwin  on  the  twenty- 
third?  I  do  not,  but,  as  she  is  giving  the  dinner  for 
me,  I  suppose  I  must  go." 

"  Why  not  have  her  give  the  dinner  for  you  with  you 
absent  ? "  said  Humphrey.  "  Like  one  of  those  me- 
morial services  where  there  is  no  corpse,  you  know." 

But  Dioneme  was  not  in  a  mood  for  fantasy.  "  Will 
[64] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

you  go  or  not?"  she  repeated  with  determined  con- 
centration. 

"Yes,  I'll  go.     Who  is  Miss  Godwin?" 

"  But  surely  you  remember  Miss  Godwin,  my  dear 
boy!"  said  Dioneme,  who  never  remembered  any  one. 

"You  mean  the  old  lady  who  lives  in  one  of  those 
big,  ancient  houses  on  Irving  Place  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  knows  everybody,  all  sets,  I  mean,  the 
simply  clever  and  the  simply  fashionable;  the  fashion- 
able people  who  are  clever  and  the  clever  people  who 
are  fashionable." 

"  Does  she  have  a  kind  of  salon  ?  "  asked  Humphrey. 

"Not  as  bad  as  that!  Women's  salons  seem  to  me 
so  often  only  sensuality  in  an  intellectual  mask.  I 
expect  Circe  had  the  first." 

Dioneme  finished  her  note  while  Humphrey  smoked 
a  cigarette  in  silence,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book 
he  picked  up  from  the  table. 

"Oh!"  said  his  mother  finally,  observing  him, 
"That's  rather  a  good  book,  that  life  of  George  Sand. 
I  was  reading  it  this  afternoon." 

She  kindled  into  vivacity,  left  free  to  take  up  a  sub- 
ject which  really  interested  her.  "Of  course,  it  is 
mostly  about  her  love  affairs.  Isn't  it  strange,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  the  people  of  to-day  are 
so  much  more  interested  in  George  Sand's  lovers  than 
in  her  novels?" 

[65] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"About  as  many  of  one  as  of  the  other,  weren't 
there?"  said  Humphrey. 

"It's  a  sad  comment,"  went  on  Dioneme — "the 
woman's  outliving  the  author,  as  if  to  be  merely  woman 
were  best!" 

She  fell  into  one  of  her  sudden,  deep  reveries,  from 
the  look  on  her  face  a  painful  one.  Humphrey  watched 
her  with  a  new  curiosity,  clairvoyant  all  at  once  and 
freed  from  the  banal  perception  imposed  by  relation- 
ship. She  sat  with  the  silver  handle  of  her  pen  just 
touching  her  lips,  her  deep  eyes  fixed  on  the  outside 
dark.  Dressed  in  one  of  Mariano  Fortuny's  painted 
gowns,  which  fell  around  her  in  folds  of  dim  blues  and 
purples,  bordered  with  strange  designs  in  gold,  a 
mysterious  gown  which  seemed  all  twilight  and  stars, 
she  impressed  him  more  than  ever  before  with  her 
beauty  and  her  curious  charm  as  a  personality.  He 
wondered  if  her  genius  itself  ever  hampered  her,  clung 
around  her  feet  like  a  heavy  and  cumbrous  garment;  if 
she  ever  longed  for  the  naked  and  primeval,  to  be 
swayed  by  unthinking  passions,  untortured  by  the 
intellect,  submissive  to  man's  unquestioned  will.  Did 
she  ever  think  regretfully  of  her  own  beauty,  and  how 
it  was  burning  itself  out  ?  Was  she  tortured  by  visions 
of  simple  Pagan  women,  passionate  and  unashamed  ? 
Or  was  she  simply  a  creator,  one  of  those  exotic  creat- 
ures, born  to  feel  more  than  others,  perhaps,  but,  in  the 
[66] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

need  of  reproducing  that  feeling  in  art,  to  lose  it 
utterly.  Was  she  unmoral  in  her  remoteness  from  any 
personal  imprint  from  experience,  whether  good  or 
evil? 

Humphrey  felt  that  only  he,  at  that  moment,  per- 
ceived her  power,  as  only  he  knew  her  weakness. 
Yet  the  sum  of  the  two  remained  uncertainty,  and 
he  was  seized  with  a  kind  of  foreboding.  He  realized 
that  this  woman  (she  seemed  so  distant  just  then 
that  he  instinctively  avoided  the  human  thought  of 
"mother")  stood  between  him  and  the  world,  even  as 
he  must,  unquestioningly,  stand  between  the  world 
and  her. 


[67] 


CHAPTER  VI 

DIONEME  was  late  in  dressing  on  the  evening 
of  Miss  Godwin's  dinner.  When  she  finally 
joined  Humphrey  in  the  hall,  muffled  in  furs,  for  it  was 
a  cold  night,  he  had  not  seen  her  since  the  morning. 
They  entered  the  waiting  carriage  and  were  driven 
hurriedly  and  for  the  most  part  in  silence  to  Irving 
Place.  When  they  entered  Miss  Godwin's  drawing- 
room  it  was  full  of  people;  plainly  they  were  the  last 
and  it  was,  to  be  a  large  dinner. 

Humphrey  looked  around  him  and  saw  that  his 
mother  had  given  a  truthful  account  of  their  hostess's 
catholic  tastes  in  entertaining.  He  recognized  Mrs. 
Claypool  West,  known  as  one  of  the  leaders  of  New 
York  society  to  all  those  who  were  not  in  it.  Under 
her  elaborately  coiffed  white  hair  her  eyes,  like  those 
of  a  wise,  tired  old  monkey,  gleamed  dully.  Near  her 
was  Mrs.  Loring  Grey,  who  was  not  clever  enough  to 
have  friends  as  clever  as  herself  and  so  was  always 
bored.  She  had  the  perfect  New  York  manner — a 
compound  of  suavity,  languour,  and  ice. 

Dr.  Trageser,  an  unfashionable  professor  of  physics 
from  one  of  the  universities,  talked  deferentially  to  a 
[68] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

steel  millionaire,  recently  passed  on  by  Pittsburg  to 
New  York,  and  the  latest  French  portrait  painter 
struggled  to  escape  from  a  lean,  amorous-eyed  spinster, 
last  of  an  old  Knickerbocker  family,  who  supported 
herself  by  making  hats  and  read  Pierre  Louys  in  secret. 

Humphrey  had  gone  so  far  in  his  survey  of  the  room, 
when  he  caught  sight  of  Linda  Arnold,  standing,  star- 
like,  near  the  fireplace.  He  went  over  to  her  at  once. 

"  I  noticed  you  when  you  came  in  with  your  mother," 
she  said.  "I  never  dreamed  she  was  to  be  here  to- 
night— what  a  joyful  surprise!  Now  the  evening  will 
be  worth  while!" 

Not  for  the  first  time  the  girl's  absorption  in  his 
mother  grated  on  Humphrey. 

"  You  are  easily  pleased  and  excited,"  he  said  with 
an  accent  of  disapproval,  though  his  eyes  resting  on 
her  face  spoke  only  infatuation.  "You  are  very 
young."  Now,  there  is  nothing,  except  telling  an  old 
woman  that  she  is  old,  as  insulting  as  telling  a  very 
young  one  that  she  is  young. 

Linda  ignored  the  look  in  Humphrey's  eyes  and 
answered  his  words,  as  she  felt  they  deserved,  with 
spirit. 

"I  am  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind,"  she  said. 
This  sounded  well  in  spite  of  its  vagueness.  Just  then 
they  perceived  that  the  couples  were  solemnly  forming 
to  go  in  to  dinner. 

[69] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"Sorry  I'm  not  to  take  you  in,"  said  Humphrey. 
"  I'd  convince  you  you  didn't  know  your  own  mind  at 
all."  His  speech  was  as  vague  as  hers,  but  left  her 
with  a  tremulous  sense  of  masculine  power  over  her 
sex.  He  departed  in  search  of  Mrs.  Stebbins,  whose 
named  adorned  the  narrow  white  card  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  Mrs.  Stebbins,  when  found,  with  the  aid  of 
a  mutual  friend,  turned  out  to  be  an  elderly  flirt,  with 
dyed  hair  and  painted  eyebrows,  who  smiled  per- 
petually, showing  long,  brilliant,  white  teeth.  Hum- 
phrey's distress  was  further  increased  by  the  fact  that 
at  the  table  he  sat  on  the  same  side  as  Linda,  so  could 
not  even  look  at  her.  His  mother  was  opposite,  a  few 
places  down.  While  Mrs.  Stebbins  opened  a  brisk 
campaign  by  inquiring  if  he  didn't  think  some  people 
much  easier  to  get  acquainted  with  than  others,  Hum- 
phrey looked  at  Dioneme,  casually  at  first,  then  with 
a  kind  of  foreboding  anxiety.  Her  face  wore  the  flush 
he  already  knew  and  she  was  talking  intimately,  almost 
confidentially,  with  the  old  gentleman  on  her  right. 

The  latter  was  a  conservative  member  of  the  Union 
Club,  a  vestryman  of  Trinity  Church,  and  prominent 
on  the  boards  of  many  influential  societies. 

His  eyes  rested  on  Dioneme's  face  with  an  expres- 
sion of  admiration  and  puzzled  attention.  Clearly 
he  was  saying  to  himself,  "  This  is  a  handsome  woman, 
but  there  is  something  I  don't  understand  about  her." 
[70] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Humphrey,  in  the  midst  of  his  uneasiness,  smiled  at  the 
thought  of  Colonel  Livingstone  Irving's  trying  to  un- 
derstand the  author  of  "  Hilmer  Brothers." 

Sherry  was  served  with  the  soup,  and  the  champagne 
almost  immediately  afterward.  Humphrey  watched 
his  mother  as  she  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips  and  his 
sensation  of  foreboding  grew  to  sickness  of  heart.  He 
was  conscious  of  Linda,  watching  a  little  farther  down 
the  table,  and  of  all  the  indifferent,  idle,  curious  people, 
eager  for  a  new  bit  of  gossip  to  repeat  at  other  dinner- 
tables. 

Mrs.  Stebbins,  who  had  been  momentarily  engaged 
by  her  neighbor  on  the  other  side,  now  turned  her  teeth 
on  Humphrey  with  a  smile  of  determined  coquetry. 

"I  hear  you  are  the  son  of  Mrs.  Wylde,  the  writer," 
she  said.  "Is  she  here  to-night?  Do  point  her  out 
to  me!  I'm  so  excited!" 

Humphrey  indicated  where  his  mother  was  sitting. 
The  butler  was  just  refilling  her  champagne  glass. 

"I  think  she  is  perfectly  beautiful,"  gushed  Mrs. 
Stebbins,  "  such  wonderful  eyes  and  hair — and  such  a 
profile!  So  young  too!  It  doesn't  seem  possible  that 
you  can  be  her  son!" 

"We  grew  up  together,"  said  Humphrey.  And 
Mrs.  Stebbins  screamed  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  how  witty  you  are!     You  are  really  too  witty 
— now  I  know  that  you  must  be  her  son!" 
[71] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

The  dinner  began  to  be  more  animated.  Where 
Dioneme  sat  the  conversation  was  becoming  general. 
She  was  too  much  of  a  celebrity  to  be  left  entirely 
to  old  Livingstone  Irving,  and  she  was  evidently  in 
her  best  vein,  for  people  around  her  were  listening 
eagerly.  But  her  champagne  glass  was  often  refilled 
and  Humphrey  felt  that  he  could  not  longer  sit  and 
watch. 

The  time  had  come  for  him  to  do  something — what, 
he  did  not  know — but  inaction  was  impossible.  At 
any  moment  old  Irving 's  shrewd  eyes  might  perceive 
that  his  neighbor's  vivacity  was  a  little  unnatural,  or 
Dioneme  herself  might  lapse  into  the  heavy  drowsiness 
which  would  betray  her. 

"I  remember  when  I  read  your  mother's  novel, 
'Doane  Beach,'"  said  Mrs.  Stebbins.  "It  seemed  to 
me  I  was  reading  the  story  of  my  own  life,  and  curiously 
enough  a  friend  of  mine  said  to  me  once  that  I  was  like 
the  heroine.  You  remember  the  heroine,  don't  you  ? 
Her  name  was  Elizabeth.  Now,  does  it  seem  to  you — 
as  a  stranger — just  as  a  first  impression,  that  I  am  like 
her?" 

"I  think  you  never  could  have  done  what  Elizabeth 
did,"  replied  Humphrey.  "  You  are  too  feminine.  He 
hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying,  but  Mrs.  Stebbins 
was  delighted. 

"That  is  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "How  strange  that 
[72] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

you  should  have  understood  me  at  once!  There  is 
something  almost  uncanny  about  it!  Yes.  I  am  too 
feminine,  too  warm-hearted  and  trusting,  but  in  other 
ways  I  am  exactly  like  Elizabeth.  Do  you  remember 
her  gray-green  eyes  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Humphrey  vaguely  but  politely.  He 
whispered  a  word  to  the  footman,  who  was  at  that  mo- 
ment presenting  to  him  a  dish  of  fresh  asparagus. 
The  man  vanished,  but  presently  came  back  and  mur- 
mured something  in  Humphrey's  ear.  No  one  had 
noticed  his  disappearance,  but  several  saw  him  return, 
his  delivery  of  a  message  to  Humphrey,  and  the  latter's 
well-simulated  restrained  start  of  surprise  and  dismay. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  what  the  man  said  was,  "  The 
letter  you  ask  for  is  not  in  your  overcoat  pocket,  sir." 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  I  must  send  a  line  to  my 
mother,"  Humphrey  remarked  to  his  neighbor. 

"Nothing  has  happened,  I  hope?"  she  asked  in- 
quisitively. 

"I'm  afraid  we  must  slip  away,"  he  said.  "I've 
had  bad  news." 

He  wrote  on  the  back  of  a  dinner  card:  "Have  a 
message  which  makes  it  necessary  for  us  to  leave  at 
once.  Say  a  word  quietly  to  Miss  Godwin  as  you  pass 
her  chair." 

The  butler  carried  the  missive  to  Dioneme  and 
Humphrey  watched  her  read  it,  change  color,  and  look 
[73] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

at  him  apprehensively,  with  a  frightened  question  in 
her  eyes.  The  shock  steadied  her.  She  murmured 
a  word  or  two  of  excuse  to  her  neighbors  on  the  right 
and  left,  and  rose,  stopping  to  speak  to  their  hostess  on 
her  way  out  of  the  room.  Humphrey  followed  her. 
In  the  hall,  where  they  had  left  their  coats,  she  took 
him  by  the  arm  and  excitedly  demanded  an  explana- 
tion. 

"Nothing  to  be  too  much  frightened  about,"  he 
said  reassuringly  for  the  benefit  of  the  maid  who  was 
helping  Dioneme  into  her  cloak.  "Tell  you  in  the 
carriage." 

But  already  his  mother,  in  spite  of  her  still  half-con- 
fused wits,  had  guessed  his  subterfuge,  and  her  momen- 
tary alarm  had  given  place  to  an  unnatural  anger. 
Humphrey  saw  that  she  was  trembling — that  she  could 
hardly  control  herself  until  they  were  out  of  the  house 
and  on  their  way  home. 

When  she  began  to  speak,  finally,  her  voice  was  al- 
most unrecognizable,  but  he  hardly  heeded  what  she 
said,  feeling  that  it  was  not  really  his  mother  who 
talked,  but  some  one  pitiable  through  irresponsibility. 
After  a  time  she  grew  rambling  and  incoherent  until 
in  the  end  her  resentment  wore  itself  out  in  ambigu- 
ous self-pity.  Humphrey  put  his  arm  around  her 
and  drew  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder.  As  he  did 
so  he  felt  that  there  were  tears  on  her  cheek.  A  boyish 
[74] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

shame  kept  him  silent  where  he  would  have  liked  to 
venture  some  word  of  encouragement  and  reassur- 
ance, but  though  he  undoubtedly  suffered,  his  pre- 
dominant emotion  at  that  moment  was  relief  at  having 
escaped  from  that  long,  glittering,  argus-eyed  dinner- 
table  before  his  mother  had  betrayed  herself. 

Clearly  she  must  have  taken  stimulant  of  some  kind 
before  they  left  home — and  the  champagne  afterward ! 

He  wondered  if  she  were  conscious  of  her  own  posi- 
tion and  smarted  under  it.  What  wretchedness  for  her 
to  know  that  he,  her  son,  was  now  aware  of  her  secret! 
He  hated,  for  her  sake,  his  own  assured  knowledge. 
Pity  rushed  over  him  and  drowned  other  feelings. 
When  they  reached  home  he  roused  Dioneme  from  the 
apathy  she  had  fallen  into,  and  helped  her  into  the 
house  and  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room. 

"  Mrs.  Wylde's  maid  is  not  in  yet,"  said  the  parlor- 
maid. "  She  was  told  she  could  be  out  until  half-past 
ten  and  it  is  only  ten  now." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Humphrey.  "We  came  home 
earlier  than  we  expected.  Tell  Parker,  when  she 
comes  in,  that  Mrs.  Wylde  will  not  need  her  to-night." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  servant  and  departed, 
wondering  a  little. 

Humphrey  helped  his  mother  into  a  loose  dressing- 
gown.    She  was  very  quiet  still  and  seemed  exhausted, 
with  the  vague,  loose  motions  of  a  convalescent. 
[75] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

Humphrey  put  her  into  a  low  chair  and  forced 
himself  to  talk,  cheerfully,  about  trivial  things.  But 
his  mother  made  no  response,  seeming  not  to  hear 
him. 

"Where  is  Parker?"  she  murmured  at  last,  reiter- 
ating gently,  like  an  ailing  child,  that  she  wanted 
Parker  to  come  and  put  her  to  bed. 

Humphrey  went  to  the  window  and  drew  aside  the 
curtains,  looking  out  at  the  night  as  if  it  held  the  answer 
to  riddles.  He  was  heavy  at  heart,  though  it  was  not 
courage  or  determination  that  failed  him,  but  judg- 
ment. He  was  conscious  now  of  his  youth  and  inex- 
perience— probably  a  first  sign  of  the  loss  of  both. 

But  surely  it  needed  only  the  right  word  of  appeal ! 
Once  aroused  to  the  necessity  his  mother,  with  her  in- 
sight into  truth  and  the  force  of  will  which,  hand  in 
hand  with  creative  force,  had  made  her  what  she  was, 
would  be  strong  enough  to  save  herself.  She  had  not 
perceived  her  danger,  had  not  yet  realized  the  depths 
into  which  she  was  sinking. 

He  turned  impetuously — eager  to  make  the  appeal 
at  that  moment,  feeling  himself  suddenly  and  irre- 
sistibly armed  with  the  eloquence  of  love  and  convic- 
tion, but  Dioneme  had  dropped  into  a  heavy  sleep  and 
lay  in  her  chair,  inert. 

Humphrey  drew  the  curtains  again,  and  went  out  of 
the  room.  How  foolish  he  had  been  to  think  of  mak- 
[76] 


ing  any  impression  on  her  to-night.  He  must  wait 
until  she  was  entirely  herself  again.  No  matter  what 
came  now,  and  in  his  renewed  discouragement  he  felt 
inclined  to  count  the  worst  as  the  most  probable,  his 
mother  must  be  protected  from  the  world.  No  one 
should  ever  suspect  her  weakness.  This  he  swore  to 
himself  grimly. 

The  next  morning  Linda  came  early  to  ask  after 
Dioneme.  Miss  Godwin  had  said  casually,  the  night 
before,  that  Mrs.  Wylde  and  her  son  had  bad  news  of 
the  serious  illness  of  a  relative,  and  so  explained  their 
sudden  disappearance.  As  no  one  wished  to  endan- 
ger the  gayety  of  the  dinner  by  dwelling  on  melancholy 
topics,  the  matter  had  been  allowed  to  drop,  but  Linda 
was  full  of  anxiety  and  interest. 

At  the  Madison  Avenue  house  she  saw  only  Emma 
Cooper,  who  was  sitting  idly  in  the  morning-room, 
awaiting  the  allotment  of  her  day's  work. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said,  when  Linda  was  shown 
in.  "You'll  have  to  wait  some  time,  I  guess,  if  you 
want  to  see  her.  She  isn't  up  yet." 

"Mrs.  Wylde  isn't  ill,  is  she?"  asked  Linda, 
alarmed.  "Was  it  very  bad  news  she  had  last 
night?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  last  night.  Mr. 
Humphrey  came  in  here  before  he  went  away,  about  an 
hour  ago,  and  said  she  was  very  tired  and  wanted  to 
[77]  ' 


THE   MOON  LADY 

sleep  late  this  morning  and  not  be  disturbed  until  she 
rang.  What  did  you  mean  about  bad  news  ?  " 

Linda  briefly  related  the  events  of  the  dinner. 

"  Hm! — guess  it  was  a  false  alarm.  Mr.  Humphrey 
didn't  mention  anything."  But  Miss  Cooper's  curi- 
osity was  aroused  and  she  speculated  some  time  on 
what  the  news  might  have  been. 

"I  had  a  bad  enough  time  myself  last  night,"  she 
remarked  finally. 

"How  was  that?"  asked  Linda,  and  Miss  Cooper, 
needing  little  encouragement,  plunged  into  a  recital 
which  seemed  to  Linda,  ignorant  as  she  was  of  the 
future,  both  tedious  and  irrelevant. 

"Why,  that  little  Flora  Kelly,  the  manicure,  (you 
remember  I  told  you  about  her,  she  boards  in  our 
boarding-house),  was  dreadfully  sick.  Mrs.  Mindel- 
baum  and  I  were  up  most  all  night  with  her.  The 
other  boarders  were  real  cross  at  breakfast  because 
they  said  we  kept  them  awake  moving  around,  heating 
water  and  so  on.  She  got  cold  and  it  settled  on  her 
stomach,  I  guess.  They  all  hate  little  Kelly  or  per- 
haps they  would  have  been  more  sympathetic.  I 
don't  care  much  for  her  myself,  but  when  you  see 
everybody  down  on  a  person  you  just  take  up  for  them 
naturally.  She's  a  pretty  creature,  but  so  slack,  her 
hair  always  coming  down  and  hanging  about  her  face 
in  strings,  and  her  petticoat  showing  below  her  skirt, 
[78] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

and  her  shirtwaist  riding  up  in  the  back.  And  you 
should  have  seen  her  dirty  little  feet  when  we  put  the 
rubber  hot  water  bottle  to  'em!" 

"Is  she  better  this  morning?"  asked  Linda.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  that  she  had  been  made  familiar 
with  life  in  Mrs.  Mindelbaum's  boarding-house. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  all  right,"  said  Emma  cheerfully. 
"  She  ate  a  soft-boiled  egg  for  her  breakfast  and  seemed 
to  relish  it  very  much.  She  was  going  to  work  again 
this  afternoon.  She  manicures  at  Levy's  parlors." 

"  She  must  be  very  grateful  to  you,"  observed  Linda, 
looking  at  the  clock  and  wondering  how  long  it  would 
be  before  she  could  see  Mrs.  Wylde. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  She's  the  kind  that  takes 
things  pretty  much  for  granted,"  Emma  replied. 
"She  thinks  a  lot  about  the  men,  I  guess,  and  about 
having  a  good  time — spends  all  her  money  on  clothes 
and  going  to  the  vaudeville  theatres  and  the  cinemat- 
ograph. The  Canadian  nurse  who  boards  at  Mindel- 
baum's hints  all  kinds  of  things  about  her,  but  I  never 
listen  to  that  kind  of  talk  myself.  And  I  never  cared 
for  Lizzie  Graham,  anyhow.  She  has  a  great  deal  too 
much  to  say  about  the  families  she  nurses  in.  No  first- 
class  nurse  does  that,  and  for  my  part  I  don't  believe 
she  ever  saw  the  inside  of  the  Vanderbilt's  front  hall, 
though  to  hear  her  talk  you'd  think  she'd  been  brought 
up  by  them." 

[79] 


THE  MOON   LADY 

"I  expect  the  little  Kelly  girl  needs  a  friend  badly 
enough,"  said  Linda,  meditating  on  an  existence  so  im- 
measurably removed  from  her  own. 

"She  hasn't  many  at  Mindelbaum's,  but  it's  her 
own  fault,  I  guess.  It's  hard  to  have  patience  with  her 
sometimes.  But  she's  got  that  sort  of  delicate,  pretty 
little  face.  I  can't  help  taking  up  for  her." 

"  You  have  a  kind  heart,  Emma,"  said  Linda  gently, 
and  the  typewriter,  though  she  gave  a  disclaiming 
snort,  was  secretly  pleased  and  flattered  by  the  ap- 
proval. 

Not  long  afterward  Dioneme  came  in  with  rather  an 
absent  manner.  Her  eyelids  were  a  little  swollen  and 
reddened.  Linda  anxiously  inquired  about  the  night 
before. 

"I  heard  you  had  bad  news,"  she  said. 

"Humphrey  was  unnecessarily  alarmed,"  said 
Dioneme,  "  it  turned  out  to  be  nothing,  after  all."  She 
smiled  at  Linda,  but  there  was  something  secret  in 
her  smile,  which  the  girl  felt  unpleasantly.  She 
asked  no  more  questions;  perhaps  something  had 
happened  of  which  Mrs.  Wylde  was  not  at  liberty  to 
speak. 

"What  am  I  to  do  this  morning,  please?"  asked 
Emma  Cooper. 

Dioneme  unlocked  the  drawer  of  her  writing-table 
and  took  from  it  some  closely  written  sheets  of  paper. 
[80] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

These  she  handed  to  Emma,  who  retired  with  them 
into  her  curtained  alcove. 

"When  did  you  do  all  that?"  inquired  Linda  re- 
spectfully. The  sight  of  Dioneme's  work  in  manu- 
script never  failed  to  impress  her. 

"Yesterday,  after  lunch." 

"  But  you  were  so  tired  when  I  saw  you  in  the  morn- 
ing!" 

"  I  took  something  to  strengthen  me,"  replied  Dion- 
erne,  "after  that  I  worked  very  well." 

"Have  you  ever  tried  strychnine?"  asked  Linda 
innocently;  "my  sister  says  it  is  such  a  wonderful 
stimulant." 

"Dear  little  Linda!"  said  Dioneme  caressingly, 
"you  always  want  to  help!  You  are  like  a  good  little 
house-fairy! — I  will  buy  you  a  tiny  green  cap  such  as 
fairies  wear,  it  will  look  so  pretty  on  your  bronze-col- 
ored hair!" 

"  But  it  might  make  me  invisible,"  Linda  answered 
laughing.  "I  don't  want  to  be  invisible!" 

"  Now  I  see  you  are  too  vain  to  be  a  house-fairy!  It 
was  all  a  mistake!" 

Had  the  events  of  the  evening  before  faded  from 
Dioneme's  mind?  It  would  have  been  hard  to 
tell. 

When  Humphrey  came  home  that  evening  deter- 
mined to  make  the  plea  to  her  courage  and  strength  of 
[81] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

will  which  he  had  already  resolved  on,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  she  had  forgotten  everything. 

As  far  as  her  personal  emotions  went  she  seemed, 
at  all  times,  to  live  entirely  in  the  present.  Her  joy 
or  pain  of  the  moment  was  so  excessive,  its  interest 
for  her  so  overwhelming,  that  there  was  little  space  left 
in  her  mind  for  either  foresight  or  retrospect. 

Another  more  worldly  woman  would  have  been 
concerned  about  the  possible  comments  around  Miss 
Godwin's  dinner-table,  but  Dioneme  took  the  world 
and  its  opinions  very  lightly.  She  went  into  society 
as  a  school-boy  goes  into  his  playground  in  the  hour 
of  recreation.  The  one  serious  and  important  world 
to  her  was  presumably  that  of  her  own  creation,  where- 
in walked  the  puppets  of  her  fancy. 

The  opinion  of  her  acquaintances  about  her  books 
interested  her,  and  received  due  attention,  but  for  their 
opinions  about  herself  she  cared  not  an  iota. 

Humphrey,  once  he  had  perceived  his  mother's 
state  of  mind,  was  wise  enough  to  forego  the  appeal 
he  had  thought  of  making.  But  he  was  profoundly 
discouraged.  There  was  no  way  of  approaching  or 
taking  hold  of  her.  He  was  dealing  with  a  creature 
whose  real  thoughts  and  principles  seemed  as  intangi- 
ble and  evanescent  as  smoke  drifting  through  fog. 


[82] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THERE  was  no  further  manifestation  of  Dion- 
erne's  weakness  for  a  long  time.  It  even  ceased 
to  be  considered  in  Humphrey's  mind  as  a  persistent 
evil,  but  rather  as  something  of  rare  and  perhaps 
doubtful  recurrence,  negligible  almost  in  importance. 

He  felt  free  to  give  his  energy  to  his  office  work,  and 
in  his  spare  moments  dreamed  of  Linda.  An  obscure 
connection  between  his  professional  duties  and  the 
girl  he  loved  made  the  former  not  only  essential,  but 
enjoyable.  There  was  always  the  future  to  be  thought 
of  even  when  it  was  uncertain.  When  work  was  over 
Humphrey,  who  cared  little  for  society  as  a  routine  and 
an  institution,  was  often  driven  into  it,  like  many  other 
men,  by  the  necessity  of  seeing  the  woman  he  loved. 
With  this  end  in  view  he  made  ready,  one  evening  in 
the  middle  of  the  winter,  to  attend  the  tableaux  vi- 
vants  for  the  benefit  of  the  Sarah  Emmons  Mission  for 
Seamen,  at  the  Plaza  Hotel.  Linda's  sister,  as  was  to 
have  been  expected,  was  actively  interested  in  these 
tableaux  and  Linda  herself  was  to  appear  in  he  knew 
not  what  scene. 

He  arrived  rather  late  at  the  hotel  and  could  only 
[83] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

find  a  seat  near  the  end  of  the  big  ballroom.  There 
was  no  one  he  knew  in  his  immediate  vicinity,  so  he 
amused  himself  by  looking  around  at  the  assembly, 
most  of  whom  presented  their  backs  to  him,  bare  or 
broadclothed,  according  to  sex.  He  reflected  that  the 
majority  of  those  present  had  scrambled  through  their 
dinners  in  order  to  get  to  the  Plaza  in  time  to  secure  an 
advantageous  seat,  that  they  would  be  more  or  less 
bored  while  there,  and  start  a  stampede  of  exodus,  if 
possible,  before  the  performance  was  over.  But  that 
was  the  New  York  conception  of  social  enjoyment! 

The  enormous  room  was  stiflingly  hot  and  as  an 
epidemic  of  colds  was  raging,  an  irritating  accompani- 
ment of  coughs  and  sneezes  was  heard  to  the  hum  of 
conversation.  Considered  from  the  point  of  view  of 
numbers  the  gathering  did  great  credit  to  the  zeal 
and  energy  of  the  managers  of  the  Sarah  Emmons 
Mission. 

"They've  got  all  the  social  register  here,  and  most 
of  the  telephone  directory,"  a  woman  in  front  of 
Humphrey  murmured  to  her  neighbor. 

The  tableaux  had  been  arranged  by  a  well-known 
artist  (socially  well  known)  and  each  was  supposed 
to  be  illustrative  of  a  song  to  be  sung  by  a  tenor  voice 
just  before  the  curtains  were  drawn  aside.  They  were 
advertised  to  begin  at  nine  o'clock,  but  it  was  twenty 
minutes  later  when  Schumann's  "Du  bist  wie  eine 
[84] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Blume,  so  hold  und  schon  und  rein!"  was  heard  and 
the  hanging  folds  of  red  velvet  parted  to  show,  in  an 
oval  frame,  the  exquisite  face  of  Hildegarde  Barnard,  a 
seventeen-year  old  debutante. 

A  storm  of  perfectly  spontaneous  applause  greeted 
this  tableau  and  it  had  to  be  repeated  again  and  again 
until  the  delicate  head  of  the  poser  swayed  on  her 
long,  slim  throat  and  the  roses  trembled  in  her  hand. 

After  this  came  Rubinstein's  "Es  war  ein  alter 
Konig,"and  this  was  a  pompous  court  scene,  where  the 
"  junge  Konigin  "  wore  all  her  jewels,  said  to  be  worth 
a  million  dollars  (in  real  life  she  was  the  wife  of  a  man 
designated  loosely  but  impressively  as  "Standard 
Oil").  She  was  attended  by  Count  Aldobrunetti,  a 
large-eyed  Florentine,  in  the  person  of  the  romantic 
but  illy-inspired  page. 

This  tableau  was  received  with  a  more  restrained 
approval.  It  was  generally  remarked  that  Mrs. 
Dickey,  the  Konigin,  stood  as  if  she  had  been  tipped 
back  from  the  knees,  and  doubts  were  expressed  as  to 
the  widely  circulated  value  of  the  jewels.  The  next 
time  it  was  Linda's  turn.  She  was  to  be  seen  in  an 
illustration  of  the  old  Neopolitan  song,  "  Carme." 
As  he  heard  the  first  notes  of  the  music  Humphrey's 
heart  beat  a  little  faster,  as  it  often  did  before  a  glimpse 
of  Linda,  but  the  tableau  itself  disappointed  him. 
The  pose  and  the  costume,  he  felt,  did  not  do  Linda 


THE   MOON  LADY 

justice.  It  was  not  the  part  to  have  chosen  for  her. 
She  could  have  been  the  interpreter  of  some  dainty 
French  madrigal  of  the  eighteenth  century,  or  perhaps 
of  something  as  remote  from  that  as  Burns's  "  Mary 
Morrison."  Her  personality  would  have  lent  itself  to 
either. 

But  the  audience  did  not  seem  to  share  Humphrey's 
opinion,  for  "  Carme  "  was  loudly  applauded. 

When  each  tableau  was  over,  the  impersonator  came 
out  of  the  improvised  greenroom  to  mingle  with  the 
audience,  and  this  gave  the  occasion  a  pleasant  aspect 
of  informality  and  intimacy.  One  might  almost  for- 
get he  had  aided  the  Seamen's  Mission  to  the  extent 
of  a  five-dollar  ticket,  and  imagine  he  was  in  the 
Plaza  ballroom  by  invitation. 

Humphrey  waited  until  he  saw  Linda  come  down  the 
steps  beyond  the  stage,  descend  the  long  aisle  near  the 
wall,  and  join  some  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room  from  where  he  was  sitting.  Then  he  rose  and 
went  across  to  speak  to  her.  The  face  she  turned  to 
him,  stiff  with  paint  and  powder,  was  strange  and  star- 
tling to  him.  She  was  astonishingly,  dazzlingly  pretty, 
but  all  this  artifice,  the  blackened  eyes,  the  showy 
costume,  gave  to  her  innocent  distinction  a  suggestion 
of  perversity,  troubling  and  disconcerting. 

"  Una  rosa  piu  bella  non  v'e,"  he  said  to  her,  quoting 
from  the  song. 

[86] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"  But  this  '  Carme'  doesn't  understand  Neapolitan," 
flashed  back  Linda,  half  sorry  for  her  ignorance,  stim- 
ulated into  an  unusual  coquetry  by  the  excitement  of 
the  evening,  and  perhaps  by  the  fantastic,  half-dis- 
guise of  her  costume. 

"Won't  you  say  it  in  English?" 

"Sometime — undoubtedly.  But  don't  you  want 
to  sit  down  ?  "  He  looked  around  him.  "  There  are 
two  chairs  just  behind  us,  at  the  very  end  of  the  room 
— you  won't  see  anything,  though!" 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Linda,  "I've  seen  more 
than  enough  of  these  tableaux  at  rehearsal — but  what 
about  you  ?  " 

"A  longer  view  of  'Carme'  is  what  I  want,"  Hum- 
phrey answered.  "All  that  I  want!" 

They  sat  down  in  the  place  he  had  indicated  and 
found  themselves  in  a  warm  isolation,  as  odd  as  it  was 
complete,  with  compact  masses  of  humanity  forming 
a  bulwark  around  them.  They  were  cut  off  from  the 
least  glimpse  of  what  was  taking  place  on  the  stage 
and  were  themselves  almost  invisible  and  quite  un- 
heeded. 

And  this  detachment  from  the  rest  of  the  world, 
Linda's  nearness  and  exaggerated,  unfamiliar  beauty, 
the  perfume  of  the  scarlet  carnations  she  wore  in  her 
hair,  the  gleam  of  coquetry  in  her  eyes,  stirred  Hum- 
phrey's senses.  He  was  seized  with  a  desperate  long- 
[87] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

ing  to  touch  this  small  alluring  creature,  to  feel  under 
his  fingers  the  silken  texture  of  her  skin,  the  softness 
of  her  hair,  to  break  down  at  a  rush  all  barriers  be- 
tween them  and  take  her  at  once  in  his  arms,  without 
all  the  long  preamble  of  courtship  and  polite  attention 
decreed  by  convention. 

For  one  mad  instant  he  forgot  entirely  where  he 
was  perhaps,  and  Linda  must  have  divined  a  little  of 
all  this  from  the  way  he  looked  at  her,  for  she  found 
speech  difficult  and  could  only  play  nervously  with 
her  fan.  She  was  aware  that  her  pulses,  too,  were 
beating  a  little  faster.  What  had  changed  Humphrey 
of  a  sudden  ?  He  had  become  a  new  person,  domi- 
nating, disturbing.  She  was  curiously,  and  not  dis- 
agreeably conscious  of  his  nearness  to  her,  and  of  the 
strength  in  his  elastic  but  rather  thickly  set  figure. 
His  thick  black  hair,  and  his  short-lashed,  steady  blue 
eyes  also  gave  her  a  strange  sense  of  pleasure. 

Touched  by  an  old  magic,  these  two  young  people 
were  momentarily  drawn  perilously  close  to  each  other. 

The  shock  to  the  girl  was  abrupt  and  incompre- 
hensible, though  to  Humphrey  it  came  as  the  culmina- 
tion of  a  sentiment  which  had  been  born  at  his  first 
sight  of  Linda. 

Mastering  himself  a  little  he  leaned  over  and  took 
the  girl's  fan  from  her.  But  his  fingers  shook  and  be- 
fore he  knew  it  the  sticks  of  the  fan  snapped  in  his  hold. 
[88] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Never  mind!"  said  Linda,  trying  to  speak  natu- 
rally. "  It's  of  no  value — '  Carme '  couldn't  afford  ex- 
pensive fans,  you  know." 

She  felt  as  if  her  own  voice  came  to  her  from  a  long 
way  off  and  there  was  a  humming  in  her  ears,  but  she 
tried  to  raise  her  eyes  and  look  Humphrey  carelessly  in 
the  face.  It  was  of  no  use,  his  gaze  held  hers  with 
something  so  bold,  so  insistent  yet  caressing,  that  she 
hastily  turned  her  head  away  again,  frightened  at  she 
knew  not  what. 

In  her  trouble  and  shyness  he  read  a  hope,  almost  a 
promise,  and  grew  suddenly  confident.  It  was  enough 
for  the  moment — he  would  ask  nothing  more — this  was 
not  the  time  nor  the  place. 

Linda,  when  she  reached  home  that  night  and  was 
at  last  alone,  in  bed  and  trying  to  sleep,  went  over 
and  over  the  little  scene.  What  had  been  said  or  done  ? 
Nothing — yet  her  cheeks  burned  now  at  the  memory, 
her  nerves  were  in  a  tumult.  Something  of  significance 
had  happened.  Humphrey  Wylde  had  changed,  she 
had  changed,  the  whole  world  had  changed.  Yet 
what  did  she  really  know  of  Mrs.  Wylde's  son  ?  He 
was  almost  a  stranger  to  her.  Was  this  strange  feeling 
of  intimate  knowledge  only  an  hallucination  or  was  it 
real  ?  She  felt — poor  child! — as  if  she  were  trying  to 
seize  and  inquire  into  the  substance  of  a  flying  shadow. 
She  was  baffled  and  tormented  by  her  very  attempts 
[89] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

at  self-analysis,  and  still  Humphrey's  long  look  seemed 
to  burn  through  her  and  she  lay,  until  nearly  daylight, 
sleepless,  not  knowing  whether  what  she  felt  was 
pain  or  joy. 

The  next  morning  she  was  to  have  gone  to  see  Di- 
oneme,  but  a  new  self -consciousness  made  her  feel  that 
such  a  visit  was,  just  at  that  moment,  impossible. 
She  telephoned,  therefore,  to  say  that  she  could  not 
keep  her  engagement.  Irrationally  enough  she  felt 
guilty  of  an  infidelity  to  the  mother  in  having  dwelt 
too  long  on  thoughts  of  the  son.  As  an  obscure  ex- 
pression of  remorse  she  took  Dioneme's  last  book  from 
the  shelf  and  sat  down  to  reread  it.  While  she  was 
thus  occupied  she  happened  to  think  of  the  trivial 
circumstance  that  neither  Humphrey  nor  his  mother 
had  ever  been  asked  to  dine  with  them.  Such  an 
oversight  struck  her  as  inconceivable — for  she  had  been 
strictly  trained  to  conventional  observances.  How 
had  it  occurred? 

She  went  at  once  to  her  sister's  room  and  found 
Julie  sitting  in  front  of  her  writing-table.  An  engage- 
ment calendar  was  on  her  right  hand  and  on  her  left 
a  box  divided  into  compartments  labelled  respectively, 
"bills,"  "letters,"  "invitations,"  "charities,"  and 
"circulars."  Neat  packages  of  papers,  held  together 
by  india-rubber  bands,  lay  before  her  on  the  table, 
and  the  chef's  menu  book  was  under  her  immediate 
[90] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

scrutiny.  Julie  was  in  the  very  thick  of  her  morning 
employments.  She  looked  up,  inquiringly,  with  her 
eye-glasses  balanced  on  her  long,  aristocratic  nose,  as 
Linda  entered. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  out?" 

"So  I  was — but  I  decided  not  to,  after  all.  When 
are  you  giving  your  next  dinner,  sister  ?  " 

"Let  me  see!"  said  Julie,  meditatively,  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  engagement  calendar;  "  I  think  it 
is  on  the  30th,  yes,  Friday,  the  30th,  and  I  want  you, 
too,  Linda;  there  are  some  younger  people  coming 
— Jim  Strong  and  his  wife,  Walter  Jackson,  and  the 
Stevenson  boy." 

"I  wish  you  would  ask  Mrs.  Wylde  and  her  son,  if 
you  have  room.  They've  never  dined  here — and  they 
must  think  it  so  rude  of  us!" 

Even  as  she  spoke  it  flashed  through  Linda's  mind 
how  little  attention  Dioneme  paid  to  social  considera- 
tions ;  to  picture  her  brooding  over  the  fact  of  not  re- 
ceiving any  particular  invitation  was  absurd.  And 
Humphrey  was  almost  as  nonchalant.  No,  it  was  not 
on  their  account  that  she  saw  the  sudden  and  pressing 
necessity  of  their  being  asked  to  dinner,  it  was  because 
she  herself,  for  some  indefinable  reason,  felt  it  well  to 
establish  formal  relations  between  the  two  families. 

Julie,  meanwhile,  kept  her  brows  bent  in  anxious 
reflection.  She  had  never  been  able  to  entirely  ap- 
[91] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

prove  Linda's  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Wylde,  but  had 
looked  upon  it  as  a  girl's  infatuation  which  would  soon 
pass.  Most  careful  inquiry  had  given  her  no  real 
reason  for  interfering  with  this  friendship.  Mrs. 
Wylde  was  eccentric — a  literary  genius — not  exactly 
in  their  own  restricted  circle,  but  there  was  nothing 
whatever  to  be  said  against  her.  Her  husband,  it 
appeared,  belonged  to  one  of  the  oldest  New  York 
families,  and  the  son  was  quite  all  he  should  be  and  a 
member  of  a  good  club.  In  spite  of  these  assurances, 
with  which  she  often  fortified  herself,  Julie  had  still  a 
dim  distrust  of  Mrs.  Wylde's  influence  on  her  younger 
sister.  Now  she  was  asked  not  only  to  countenance, 
but  to  publicly  approve  this  association  by  asking  the 
famous  writer  to  dinner.  It  was  a  thing  which  re- 
quired earnest  thought  and  consideration. 

The  smallest  matter  was  often  to  Julie  of  great,  even 
spiritual,  significance.  She  was  not,  as  she  seemed, 
perhaps,  absorbed  in  the  commonplace,  but  groping 
blindly  toward  philosophy. 

Through  as  simple  a  thing  as  the  renunciation  of 
her  morning  coffee  she  struggled,  self-consciously,  with 
the  intricate  question  of  power  of  habit  as  opposed 
to  suggestion;  and  the  choice  between  a  summer  in 
Europe  and  one  with  her  old  aunt  at  Lenox  brought  her 
face  to  face  with  the  vast  mystery  of  will  and  predesti- 
nation. 

[92] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  the  question  of  in- 
viting Mrs.  Wylde  to  dinner  would  not  be  disposed  of 
lightly.  To  gain  time  she  affected  to  be  absorbed  in  a 
study  of  her  dinner  list,  until  at  last  Linda  grew  a  little 
impatient. 

"But,  surely,  you  know,  sister,  whether  you  have 
room  for  two  more  or  not!"  she  exclaimed. 

"We  are  twenty  already,"  replied  Julie,  "and  there 
are  only  twenty  of  those  old  Dresden  desert  plates." 

"But  you've  often  had  twenty-two  or  twenty-four. 
What  does  it  matter  about  the  old  Dresden!  Let 
them  use  something  else." 

"Mrs.  Williamson  may  drop  out,"  went  on  Julie 
meditatively.  "I  heard  last  night  at  the  tableaux 
that  she  was  ill  with  grippe  and  that  it  might  develop 
into  pneumonia  at  any  minute." 

Linda's  usual  gay  good-nature  seemed  to  have  failed 
her  that  morning,  for  she  found  her  sister's  slow  delib- 
erations unbearably  irritating. 

"  Let  me  know  to-night  what  you  decide — will  you, 
please  ?  "  she  said  at  this  point,  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  fearing  that  she  might  be  betrayed  into  some 
expression  of  her  impatience. 

In  the  end  Mrs.  Wylde  and  Humphrey  were  invited 

and  accepted  with  commendable  promptness.     In  the 

interval  between  this  and  the  dinner  itself  Linda  saw 

both  her  friends  several  times,  but  Humphrey,  in  spite 

[93] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

of  his  efforts,  could  never  find  himself  alone  with  her. 
With  inborn  feminine  skill  the  girl  avoided  this  soli- 
tary meeting,  the  thought  of  which  filled  her  with  a 
kind  of  terror.  Then  the  inexplicable  would  perhaps 
be  explained,  and  she  preferred  to  wander,  not  un- 
happily, in  her  present  limbo  of  doubt  and  self-ques- 
tioning and  timorous  remembrance. 

Though  she  and  Humphrey  had  fancied  themselves 
unnoticed  on  the  night  of  the  tableaux,  Walter  Jack- 
son, never  unobservant,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  them, 
and  their  very  apparent  absorption  in  each  other's 
society  had  confirmed  him  in  an  old  suspicion. 

He  felt  certain  now  that  young  Wylde  was  not  only 
a  rival,  but  a  serious  one.  Fortunately  he  had  the 
greatest  confidence  in  his  own  abilities.  He  was,  he 
felt,  more  experienced  and  more  subtle  than  Hum- 
phrey, besides  he  had  more  weapons  with  which  to 
work. 

Love,  as  a  sentiment,  was  not  much  in  his  line  of 
thought.  Otherwise  he  might  have  reflected  that 
when  it  once  enters  the  field  it  wins  victories,  though 
ignorant  and  unarmed. 

There  were  two  relations  of  the  sexes,  according  to 
Jackson's  classifications:  The  first,  marriage  (when 
advantageous)  was  a  duty  to  oneself  and,  if  put  grand- 
diloquently,  to  the  State.  It  advanced  a  man's  con- 
sideration and  importance. 

[94] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

The  second,  mere  gratification  of  the  senses,  was 
a  thing  apart,  of  no  emphasis,  the  common  pas- 
time. 

Beyond  this  his  imagination  did  not  go.  At  first 
glimpse  Humphrey,  as  an  admitted  rival,  offered  re- 
grettably little  opportunity  for  honest  detraction. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  learned  against  him  and 
(which  was  even  more  unfortunate — ridicule  being 
more  potent  than  slander)  he  was  not  an  easy  figure  at 
which  to  poke  fun.  He  took  himself  with  such  cheer- 
ful lightness  that  humor,  who  prefers  a  solemn,  even 
pompous,  mask,  found  herself  at  a  loss. 

But  Jackson  did  not  begin  his  campaign  with  de- 
spair. He  had  learned  the  immense  value  of  being 
able  to  wait,  and  when  even  a  dull  man  learns  this  he 
becomes  formidable.  In  the  meantime  he  was  anxious 
to  find  out  how  far  Linda's  interest  in  Humphrey 
was  already  engaged,  and  to  this  end,  when  they  next 
rode  together  in  the  park,  he  led  the  conversation  to 
the  subject  of  the  Wyldes. 

Jackson  was  at  his  best  on  a  horse.  He  had  a  good 
seat,  and  his  long,  lean  figure  showed  to  advantage. 
The  knowedge  of  this  gave  him  even  greater  confi- 
dence in  himself  and  his  power  to  make  himself  master 
of  the  situation. 

"I've  been  reading  one  of  Mrs.  Wylde's  books 
lately,"  he  remarked,  as  they  walked  their  horses 
[95] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

around  the  reservoir,  after  a  long  trot.  "  Very  clever 
I  thought." 

There  was  no  surer  way  to  his  companion's  atten- 
tion— and  he  knew  it.  Privately  he  considered  all 
novels,  except  detective  stories,  about  as  stimulating  as 
tepid  and  unseasoned  soup. 

"  Which  one  did  you  read  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see — I  think  it  was  called  '  Doane  Beach' — 
or  something  like  that — I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  re- 
member the  names  of  books — but  I  remember  the 
story  of  this  well  enough!"  he  added  hastily,  observ- 
ing Linda's  look  of  surprise.  "You  see  a  lot  of  the 
author,  I  believe.  She  must  be  a  wonder!" 

"There's  no  one  like  her,"  said  Linda.  "She  is 
like  a  witch  and  a  queen  and  a  little  child  all  at  the 
same  time — and  so  beautiful — one  could  drown  in  her 
eyes!" 

"Hm!"  said  Jackson,  faintly  ironical,  "must  be  a 
fine  woman!  Do  you  find  young  Wylde  at  all  like 
her?" 

"  Absolutely  different,"  replied  Linda  shortly.  She 
realized  that  Walter  had  found  her  girlish  and  senti- 
mental. 

"  I  was  talking  with  a  man  who  knew  them  both  the 

other  day,"  continued  Jackson.     "He  said  that  the 

son  was  a  very  clever  fellow  and  that,  in  certain  ways, 

his  mother  is  entirely  under  his  influence — that  he 

[96] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

makes  all  her  business  contracts  for  her,  arranges  her 
hours  for  work  and  plans  all  appointments  with  people 
who  wish  to  see  her.  Curious — isn't  it!" 

"  I  don't  think  it's  true,"  said  Linda,  speaking  with 
what  seemed  to  Jackson  too  great  an  acquaintance 
with  the  habits  and  characteristics  of  the  Wylde 
family. 

"  Well — of  course  you  know  better  than  I,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I'm  only  repeating  what  I  heard — bad  habit, 
I  know,  but,  after  all,  our  fellow-creatures  are  more 
interesting  than  anything  else.  This  man  who  was 
talking  to  me  said  that  old  Mr.  Wylde — the  father — 
left  everything  when  he  died  to  his  wife  and  that  Hum- 
phrey was  quite  dependent  on  her.  He  seemed  to 
think  it  was  quite  natural  that  the  son  should  try  to  get 
as  strong  an  influence  over  the  mother  as  possible,  with 
an  eye  to  the  future." 

"Sometimes  I  hate  this  world!"  exclaimed  Linda 
suddenly.  She  touched  her  brown  mare  on  the  shoul- 
der and  broke  into  a  gallop.  Jackson  went  flying 
after  her  around  the  reservoir.  The  mud  from  the  soft, 
spongy  ground  spattered  up  from  under  the  hoofs 
of  the  horses,  and  the  cool,  damp  air  blew  hard  in  their 
faces  and  whipped  Linda's  cheeks  into  a  flaming  scar- 
let. A  wisp  of  her  hair  came  loose  and  blew  out  from 
behind  her  ears,  the  blood  rushed  through  her  veins 
with  an  exhilaration,  which  made  her  for  a  moment  for- 
[97] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

get  everything  annoying.  She  saw  some  sea-gulls  that 
flew  screaming  into  the  air  from  the  reservoir  and  circled 
over  their  heads,  and  she  smelt  the  odor  of  wet  earth 
and  of  saddle-leather.  Walter  Jackson  looked  at  her 
with  unemotional  approval.  How  strong  and  vigor- 
ous she  was — what  a  thoroughbred!  Just  the  girl  he 
wanted  for  a  wife.  She  would  do  him  credit,  and 
there  would  be  no  nervous  prostration  or  doctor's  bills. 
They  would  be  in  the  smart  younger  set,  and  their 
names — his  unusually  stimulated  imagination  pictured 
them  printed  in  the  papers,  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walter 
Jackson  " — would  be  known  over  the  entire  country. 

He  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  seeming  to 
criticise  Humphrey  to  her,  and  that  he  must  put  him- 
self right. 

"  That  fellow  I  was  telling  you  about,"  he  said,  when 
they  settled  down  to  a  walk  again,  resuming  their  con- 
versation where  it  had  been  left  off,  "  tried  to  fill  me  up 
with  a  lot  more  information  about  the  Wyldes,  but  I 
shut  him  off.  I  think,  with  you,  there's  too  much 
mean  gossip  in  the  world.  I  like  Humphrey,  too — 
liked  him  when  I  knew  him  in  Paris.  He's  not  at  all 
a  bad  sort.  I  don't  quite  agree  with  you  about  the 
mother,  perhaps.  She's  a  genius — but  odd — got  too 
much  what  they  call  'temperament'  for  my  taste!" 

"Genius  is  rarely  understood,"  observed  Linda 
somewhat  loftily. 

[98] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  Which  means  I'm  too  coarse  and  commonplace  to 
understand  it!"  said  Jackson  laughing.  "Well — 
you're  right  there!" 

Linda  liked  him  for  his  good  temper.  She  felt 
that  she  had  not  treated  him  very  well  that  morning 
and  exerted  herself  now  to  be  agreeable,  so  that  the 
rest  of  their  ride  passed  pleasantly. 


[99] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HUMPHREY,  on  his  way  to  his  mother's  room  on 
the  night  of  the  Arnolds'  dinner,  met  Parker, 
the  maid,  carrying  a  tray  with  a  half-filled  decanter 
of  cognac  and  an  empty  glass. 

His  long-dormant  fears  sprang  up  again  to  life.  "  I 
hope  Mrs.  Wylde  is  not  ill,  Parker?" 

The  woman  looked  at  him  with  a  perfectly  expres- 
sionless face.  Her  voice  when  she  spoke  was  low- 
pitched  and  deferential. 

"  Oh,  not  really  ill,  sir,  but  she  had  a  slight  nervous 
chill  and  thought  a  little  cognac  might  do  her  good." 

Humphrey  started  to  reply,  but  checked  himself 
and  studied  Parker's  face  with  more  attention  than 
he  had  ever  before  given  it,  though  she  had  been  in  his 
mother's  employ  for  four  years.  She  was  an  English 
woman  and  looked  about  forty.  Her  scanty  brown 
hair  was  worn  parted  and  brushed  smoothly  back  and 
her  thin  but  stocky  figure  was  always  very  neatly 
dressed  in  black.  She  had  insignificant  hazel  eyes 
and  a  wen  on  her  forehead. 

Humphrey  decided  that  she  looked,  as  she  always 
seemed,  honest  and  discreet. 
[  100] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"I'm  not  sure  that  cognac  is  good  for  nerves,  you 
know,"  he  said  finally. 

A  shade  of  something  like  embarrassment  crossed 
the  maid's  face  and  she  shifted  her  glance. 

"It's  what  I  often  tell  Mrs.  Wylde,  sir,"  she  re- 
plied. 

Humphrey,  convinced  anew  and  most  distressingly 
of  the  need  for  watchfulness  and  care  in  regard  to  his 
mother,  felt  that  here,  perhaps,  he  might  find  a  humble 
ally.  Sometime  he  might  venture  to  say  a  few  words 
to  her  which  would  show  her  plainly  her  mistress's 
condition,  but,  for  the  moment,  the  idea  of  putting 
himself  in  confidential  relations  with  a  servant  was 
distasteful  to  him.  It  seemed  to  savor  of  disloyalty 
to  his  mother.  He  did  not  yet  realize  that  Parker 
might  know  more  of  her  state  than  he  did  himself. 

He  went  on  to  Dioneme's  room,  full  of  painful  ap- 
prehension, and  found  her  lying  on  a  low  couch  in 
front  of  the  fire  relaxed  as  if  from  extreme  exhaustion. 
Her  hair,  carefully  dressed  by  Parker  a  few  minutes 
before,  was  already  disarranged.  Through  her  un- 
fastened Japanese  dressing-gown  of  blue  silk  embroi- 
dered with  dragon-flies  he  saw  her  white  delicate 
throat.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  heavy,  indifferent 
eyes  and  he  saw  at  once  that  the  dinner  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  Would  there  be  a  difficult  moment  of 
persuasion?  But  no,  Dioneme  made  no  attempt  at 
[101] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

resistance,  fell  in  at  once  with  his  proposal  that  they 
should  not  go. 

"Did  Parker  tell  you  how  ill  I  felt?"  she  asked 
vaguely.  "I  was  so  cold.  It  seemed  to  me  I  could 
never  get  warm.  But  now  I  am  better.  I  should  like 
to  sleep." 

Humphrey  bent  over  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
forehead.  "  You  have  no  fever,"  he  said,  rebelling  at 
this  pretence.  The  scent  of  amber  came  to  him  from 
his  mother's  draperies,  but  through  it  he  could  detect 
the  vapors  of  the  cognac.  His  blue  eyes  grew  a  little 
stern.  "I  will  go  and  telephone  to  Miss  Arnold," 
he  added;  "they  will  think  us  rude,  but  it  can't  be 
helped."  As  he  went  out  of  the  door  he  heard  Dion- 
erne's  heavy  breathing.  She  was  already  asleep. 
After  he  had  sent  his  message  Humphrey  went  to  his 
own  room  and  shut  himself  in.  What  was  Linda  think- 
ing of  him  ?  He  had  not  said  that  his  mother  was  ill, 
but  simply  announced  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
them  to  keep  their  engagement.  Now  he  asked  him- 
self why  he  had  done  this.  He  might  so  honestly  have 
said  that  she  was  not  well  enough  to  dine  out  and  that 
he  could  not  leave  her.  But  then  Linda  the  next 
morning  would  have  found  her,  probably,  in  the  best 
of  health  and  spirits.  He  was  already  pledged  to  per- 
petual deceit,  if  he  were  to  keep  his  mother's  secret. 
Artifice  was  closing  in  all  around  him  like  a  fog, 
[  102] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

to  cut  him  off  from  all  other  human  beings.  For  the 
rest  of  the  world,  it  didn't  matter.  But  Linda!  If 
she  could  understand,  could  give  him  a  word  of  pity, 
of  understanding!  Pity,  so  intolerable  from  others, 
would  be  sweet  from  her. 

He  had  not  seen  her  alone  since  the  night  of  the 
tableaux.  Twice  he  had  been  to  her  house,  but 
only  to  find  other  visitors  before  him  and  others  still 
to  persistently  outstay  him.  He  had  tried  to  read 
something  in  her  eyes,  but  they  were  veiled  and  dis- 
tant. There  was  nothing  of  that  sweet  trouble  he 
had  seen  in  them  before.  She  had  regained  all  her 
self-possession  and  become  again  virginal,  tantalizing 
and  remote.  If  he  had  only  been  bold  enough  to 
have  taken  his  chance  that  other  night!  But  every- 
thing had  seemed  so  sure  then,  words  would  have 
seemed  crude,  intrusive.  They  had  been  so  near  to 
each  other  for  a  moment — and  now 

Humphrey  got  up,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room.  The  floor  creaked  under  his 
heavy  tread  and  it  occurred  to  him,  though  unnecessa- 
rily, that  his  mother,  in  the  room  underneath,  might 
be  wakened,  so  he  sat  down  again. 

How  he  had  looked  forward  to  this  evening,  count- 
ing on  the  chance  of  a  few  words  with  Linda.  He 
had  thought  he  might  even  sit  next  to  her  at  the  table. 
Now  it  was  all  over.  She  would  think  him  ill-bred 
[  103] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

and  indifferent  and  he  could  never  explain.  There 
was  the  night  of  the  Godwin  dinner  too!  He  and 
his  mother  would  be  soon  voted  socially  impossible. 
Not  that  he  cared,  except  for  Linda!  It  was  better 
than  having  people  guess  the  horrible  truth. 

More  and  more  his  will  concentrated  itself  on  this 
essential,  which  was  to  become  the  motive  of  his 
entire  existence.  If  his  purpose  had  needed  conse- 
cration there  was  the  remembrance  of  his  father's  last 
words. 

Meanwhile  at  the  Arnolds'  twenty  minutes  past 
eight  found  all  the  guests  but  Humphrey  and  Di- 
oneme  assembled  in  the  drawing-room. 

A  slight  undercurrent  of  impatience  could  be 
divined,  though  it  was  more  or  less  politely  hidden  be- 
neath smiles  and  voluble  chatter.  Julie,  as  hostess, 
found  it  hard  to  fix  her  mind  on  what  the  old  man  be- 
side her  was  saying.  Her  gaze  kept  wandering  anx- 
iously to  the  door,  though  the  trained  smile  of  the 
accustomed  dinner-giver  remained  on  her  lips.  But 
Linda  was  more  nervous  than  her  sister.  She  felt 
as  if  Humphrey  and  his  mother  were  her  guests,  and 
as  if  she  were  in  some  way  responsible  for  them. 
What  was  keeping  them  ?  Had  something  happened  ? 

At  half-past  eight  Mrs.  Harry  Montgomery,  who 
was  an  intimate  of  the  house,  said  to  Julie:  "I 
wouldn't  wait  any  longer  if  I  were  you.  Do  let  us  go 
[  104  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

in!"  just  at  that  moment  the  butler  entered  with  a 
message  which  he  murmured  discreetly  in  Miss 
Arnold's  ear. 

"Mr  Humphrey  Wylde  has  just  telephoned  that  it 
will  be  impossible  for  Mrs.  Wylde  and  himself  to  dine 
here  this  evening." 

Julie's  trained  smile  flickered  for  a  moment  on  her 
lips  as  if  it  were  on  the  point  of  being  extinguished. 

"How  exactly  like  literary  people!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Montgomery,  who  had  caught  the  message  and 
was  divided  between  amusement  and  indignation. 
"I  told  you  one  could  never  depend  on  them.  They 
are  more  casual  than  the  English." 

The  word  from  the  missing  guests  was  repeated  cir- 
cumspectly around  the  room  and  met  with  disapproval 
and  some  amusement.  It  was  a  relief,  however,  to 
be  able  to  go  in  to  dinner,  at  last. 

The  two  extra  covers  had  been  hastily  removed, 
but  it  brought  together  two  women  who  were  not 
friendly  and  two  men  who  had  never  met  before  and 
had  nothing  in  common.  Julie  felt  that  the  evening 
was  a  failure,  and  as  dinners,  from  their  social  aspect, 
were  of  vast  import  to  her,  she  was  as  distressed  as  she 
was  indignant.  Why  had  she  ever  yielded  to  Linda's 
desire  of  inviting  these  accidental  outsiders,  for,  though 
Humphrey  was  a  gentleman  and  Dioneme  a  celebrity, 
they  were  now  fixed  in  Julie's  mind  as  altogether  alien. 
[  105  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

As  for  Linda  she  was  less  angry  than  alarmed.  She 
felt  that  Humphrey's  short  message  had  concealed 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  calamity,  either  great  or 
small.  Then  that  other  occasion  at  Miss  Godwin's 
came  to  her  mind,  and  for  a  moment  it  struck  her  as 
odd  and  unaccountable  that  fatality  should  pursue  the 
Wyldes  when  they  dined  out. 

Walter  Jackson,  who  sat  next  to  her,  was  inclined  to 
condone  and  be  sympathetic.  He  agreed  with  her 
that  something  of  a  certain  seriousness  must  have 
happened. 

"I  know  Wylde  too  well  to  believe  he  would  let 
his  mother  break  a  dinner  engagement  at  the  last 
moment  just  because  she  had  a  slight  headache,  or 
didn't  feel  like  meeting  people,  or  some  nonsense  like 
that!  Whatever  he  is  he  isn't  an  inconsiderate 
bounder,  and  no  one  but  a  bounder  fails  his  hostess 
at  the  last  moment  for  no  reason  whatever.  No, 
you'll  find  there  is  some  good  explanation." 

"If  she  was  ill,"  said  Linda  reasonably,  "he 
might  have  come  without  her." 

"  Perhaps  he  didn't  like  to  leave  her,"  replied  Jack- 
son, who  seemed  determined  to  be  Humphrey's 
friend. 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  assented  the  girl  with  a  sigh. 
She  felt  grateful  to  Walter  and  said  to  herself  that  she 
had  never  liked  him  so  well,  which  was  exactly  the 
[  106] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

comment  he  had  been  working  for.  His  instinct  told 
him  that  he  must  appeal  to  Linda  through  her  imagi- 
nation, and  the  more  moral  and  heroic  qualities  he 
could  contrive  to  suggest  the  better  would  be  his  chance 
with  her.  He  had  already  the  advantage  of  being  an 
old  friend,  able  to  see  her  when  he  liked,  and  to  judge 
of  the  tendencies  of  her  daily  life. 

Linda  received  a  letter  from  Humphrey  by  the  early 
post  the  next  morning.  It  apologized  most  humbly  for 
their  failure  to  appear  at  the  dinner;  his  mother  had, 
at  the  last  moment,  felt  quite  unequal  to  going,  and 
had  wanted  him  with  her.  He  hoped  that  she  and  her 
sister  would  forgive  their  seeming  but  unavoidable 
rudeness,  etc.,  etc.  It  was  a  well-written  letter,  but 
not  convincing.  Linda  read  it  aloud  to  Julie  and  saw 
that  the  cold  light  of  disapproval  in  the  latter's 
eyes  did  not  change. 

Certainly  the  letter  did  not  seem  to  supply  a  very 
adequate  excuse  for  her  friends'  failure  to  appear  at 
dinner.  Walter's  words  recurred  to  her  against  her 
will:  "No  one  but  a  bounder  fails  his  hostess  at  the 
last  moment  for  no  reason  whatever."  If  the  whole 
thing  had  merely  been  one  of  Mrs.  Wylde's  caprices, 
and  if  her  son  had  the  influence  over  her  that  people 
said,  he  should  have  insisted  on  her  keeping  her  en- 
gagement. 

Of  course  Dioneme  was  different  from  any  one  else, 
[  107  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

though;  she  must  be  permitted  to  be  fitful  and  incon- 
sistent. 

But  Linda  wished  it  were  not  all  so  impossible  to 
explain  to  Julie,  whose  friends  always  did  what  they 
were  expected  to  do. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  she  had  been  out  for  her 
morning  ride,  the  matter  seemed  less  serious  to  her. 
After  all,  what  a  fuss  over  nothing!  But  something, 
nevertheless,  had  been  placed  as  a  slight  obstacle  in  the 
current  that  was  sweeping  her  toward  Humphrey;  it 
had  been  checked  in  its  spontaneity,  turned  ever  so 
little  aside. 

Meanwhile  her  devotion  to  Humphrey's  mother  in- 
creased. She  had  been  forced  to  defend  her  against 
her  sister's  lady-like  but  outspoken  criticism,  and  in 
this  way  Dioneme  had  of  course  attained  in  the  girl's 
eyes  an  added  value. 

They  did  not  meet  again  until  three  or  four  days 
after  the  dinner  and  then  on  the  occasion  of  a  small 
tea  Dioneme  gave  for  a  visiting  Italian  critic. 

As  a  rule  Linda  preferred  seeng  her  friend  when 
there  were  no  other  guests.  This  time,  however,  she 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  meet  Signor  Giovanni  Aldi, 
having  read  with  interest  his  brilliant  studies  on  the 
early  Italian  painters. 

Humphrey  had  not  encountered  Linda  in  his 
mother's  home  for  a  long  time  and  had  almost  ceased 
[  I**] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

to  expect  it.  He  had  even  acquiesced  in  this  ruling 
of  chance,  feeling,  perhaps,  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
take  advantage  of  his  mother's  friendship  with  the 
girl,  or,  more  obscurely,  desiring  to  separate  himself 
from  Dioneme  in  her  mind,  to  fight  on  his  own  ground 
and  win  with  his  own  weapons. 

When  he  came  in  the  drawing-room,  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  tea,  he  was,  therefore,  astonished  to  find 
Linda  standing  near  the  window  listening  to  Signor 
Aldi,  who,  tall  and  gaunt,  with  long  dishevelled  hair 
and  a  worn  and  not  too  scrupulously  brushed  frock 
coat  was  discoursing  on  the  lack  of  art  in  America, 
and  the  immense  futility  of  modern  art  everywhere. 
He  was  one  of  those  people  to  whom  the  personality 
of  the  hearer  is  nought,  and  who  are  never  hampered 
in  their  monologues  by  a  passing  doubt  as  to  how  it 
will  be  received  or  whether  it  will  be  comprehended  or 
not.  Signor  Aldi  had  only  one  method  in,  talking, — 
that  of  the  lecture  hall.  He  had  proposed  marriage  to 
the  present  Signora  Aldi  in  the  same  flowing  and  so- 
norous periods  with  which  he  addressed  an  audience  of 
university  students. 

Humphrey  saw  that  Linda  was  looking  bewildered, 
and  as  he  approached  she  turned  to  him  with  the 
look  of  one  who,  in  dire  straits,  hails  salvation. 

Aldi  greeted  Humphrey  as  if  he  saw  him  not  and 
was  proceeding  with  his  discourse  when  they  were  in- 
terrupted by  an  old  lady,  who  wished  to  recall  to  the 
[109] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

distinguished  critic  the  fact  that  she  had  once  met  him 
in  Rome  in  the  winter  of  1894. 

Humphrey  and  Linda  made  their  escape  and  sat 
down  in  a  corner  by  the  fire. 

"I  am  very  angry  with  you,"  she  said — and  he 
thought  how  pretty  she  looked  when  she  was  angry, 
and  how  bright  her  eyes  were — "you  behaved  very 
badly  about  our  dinner." 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Humphrey.  She  had  expected 
a  longer  apology,  explanations,  excuses,  but  there  was 
something  so  troubled  yet  so  honest  and  convincing  in 
Humphrey's  look  that  she  found  herself  almost  exoner- 
ating him  without  further  effort.  She  did  not  find 
him,  at  first,  very  talkative.  He  seemed  satisfied  to 
look  at  her,  so  she  herself  began  to  make  conversation, 
impelled  by  an  inexplicable  dread  of  more  silences 
between  them. 

"Who  is  that  coming  in  now?"   she  asked. 

"That  is  Dr.  Macklevaine,"  replied  Humphrey, 
looking  at  a  burly  gentleman  of  fifty-five,  who  was 
kissing  his  mother's  hand  in  a  manner  which  showed 
that  the  gesture  was  an  entirely  foreign  one  to  him, 
adopted  because  of  its  discreet  privileges.  Dr.  Mack- 
levaine had  small  steel-grey  eyes  and  his  high,  sharply 
moulded  nose  cut  through  his  face  like  the  prow  of  a 
ship  and  seemed  to  cast  billows  of  purplish  red  over 
his  fat  cheeks. 

"Best  surgeon  in  town  and  a  great  admirer  of  my 

[  no] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

mother's,"  explained  Humphrey,  "probably  of  all 
men  on  earth  the  one  least  capable  of  understanding 
her." 

"Does  he  read  her  books?" 

"No — hates  her  books  because  they  take  her  time 
and  vitality.  He's  Meredith's  '  old  dog.'  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'old  dog'?" 

"  The  '  old  dog,'  according  to  Meredith,  is  the  lover 
who  is  the  least  loved,  but  the  most  faithful;  who  re- 
mains when  all  the  brilliant,  favoured,  and  fascina- 
ting ones  have  left;  when  the  hero  even  is  a  thing  of  the 
past,  there  you  have  the  'old  dog'!" 

"Do  all  women  have  one?"  asked  Linda. 

"  You  will,"  he  answered. 

Her  lips  curved  in  a  sly  smile  and  she  looked  at 
Humphrey  with  a  question  of  some  daring  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no ! "  he  said  promptly.  "  /  shall  not  be  the 
'old  dog'!  I  shall  probably  be  the  hero." 

"You  are  very  bold  and  self-assured,"  she  replied, 
frowning  a  little. 

"Heroes  have  to  be!" 

Around  them  the  room  hummed  with  talk  and 
laughter,  Signer  Aldi's  voice  booming  above  the  rest. 
His  little  wife,  dressed  in  a  black  jetted  silk  frock, 
with  a  coral  and  gold  brooch  at  her  throat,  stood  near 
him.  She  had  been  told  that  the  ladies  in  New  York 
dressed  a  great  deal,  so  had  decided  upon  wearing 
[111  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

the  black  silk.  It  pleased  her  that  there  was  nothing 
so  elaborate  in  the  room,  all  the  other  women  guests 
being  in  dark  tailor  gowns,  but  of  course  it  was  only 
fitting  that  she,  as  the  guest  of  honor,  should  be  the 
most  magnificently  arrayed. 

She  listened  to  her  husband's  conversation  with 
Dioneme  about  the  merits  of  the  Sassetta  Polyptych 
in  the  cathedral  of  Asciano  with  tranquillity.  She 
knew  he  did  not  admire  clever  women,  or  even  beau- 
tiful ones.  He  thought  with  the  German  Emperor 
that  woman's  place  was  in  the  home.  The  plainer  and 
duller  she  was  the  more  likely  she  would  be  to  stay 
there. 

Linda,  while  she  talked  with  Humphrey,  was  watch- 
ing his  mother.  She  was  certainly  unusually  lovely 
that  afternoon.  Her  face  had  the  strange,  luminous 
pallor  which  was  a  sign  of  health  with  her.  She 
moved  attentively  among  her  guests,  yet  seemed  im- 
measureably  remote  from  them.  It  was  as  if,  while 
she  gave  herself  to  them,  they  remained  as  individuals 
in  darkness  to  her. 

After  she  left  Aldi  she  crossed  the  room  to  greet  a 
new  visitor,  apparently  an  unexpected  one,  who  had 
just  been  announced. 

"Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Wylde,"  said  a  sharp,  insistent 
voice.  "I  didn't  know  you  were  having  a  tea!  Do 
forgive  me  for  coming  when  you  were  having  a  tea." 
[112] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

The  new-comer,  who  had  a  keen,  fox-like  face,  looked 
about  the  room  while  she  spoke  with  eyes  which  noted 
every  one.  Finally  her  gaze  fastened  itself  on  the 
face  of  the  Italian.  "Isn't  that  Giovanni  Aldi,  the 
critic?"  she  exclaimed,  enchanted.  "Do  introduce 
me  to  him!" 

"What  an  odd  woman!"  said  Linda,  "who  is 
she?" 

"  She  is,  to  me,  the  most  disagreeable  woman  in  New 
York,  and  the  most  unsnubbable.  If,  in  desperation, 
one  brained  her  with  a  club  she  would  look  up  in  her 
death-agony  and  murmur, '  Will  you  dine  with  me  next 
Tuesday?'" 

"Don't  tell  me  her  name,"  Linda  said  laughing, 
"I  want  to  forget  her — but  you  are  very  cruel!"  It 
occurred  to  her  that  Humphrey  was  unlike  himself 
that  afternoon,  that  his  high  spirits  were  assumed. 

"No,  it  is  you  that  is  cruel."  His  tone  grew  sud- 
denly serious.  Linda  did  not  dare  to  ask  why.  She 
glanced  around  the  room  again  in  search  of  a  new 
subject  for  dissection. 

"You  keep  me  talking  chaff  when  I  want  to  be 
talking  seriously,"  went  on  Humphrey. 

"One  doesn't  talk  seriously  at  an  afternoon  tea," 
said  Linda,  rising,  driven  to  flight  by  the  determina- 
tion in  Humphrey's  eyes.  "Besides  I  must  go.  It 
is  getting  late." 

[113] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ? "  Now  that  she 
was  really  going  Linda,  perhaps,  felt  safer  and  could 
permit  herself  to  be  kind.  At  least  it  seemed  to  Hum- 
phrey that  a  softer  light  came  into  her  eyes  for  a 
moment. 

"We  are  to  meet  at  the  Symphony  Concert,  I  be- 
lieve," she  said.  "Old  Miss  Godwin  said  she  was 
going  to  ask  you — but  if  you  don't  care  for  music — 

Humphrey  dismissed  the  question  of  his  fondness 
for  music. 

"  Old  Miss  Godwin's  lovers  never  watched  the  post 
for  her  letters  as  I  shall!"  he  said. 

"Did  old  Miss  Godwin  ever  have  lovers?"  ex- 
claimed Linda,  and  she  laughed,  with  the  ferocious 
cruelty  of  youth  holding  love  in  its  hand. 


[114] 


CHAPTER  IX 

A^  the  Symphony  Concert  they  had  just  finished 
playing  the  last  piece  on  the  programme, 
Richard  Strauss's  "Tod  und  Verklarung."  Once 
more,  triumphantly,  beauty  had  held  out  the  "  divine 
gift  of  oblivion,"  and  the  audience  was  still  tremulous. 
Vague,  pensive  smiles  quivered  on  those  long  lines 
of  faces,  a  sense  of  confused  rapture. 

Humphrey  sat  behind  Linda  in  a  box  near  the  stage. 
He  had  come  to  the  hall  full  of  anxiety  in  regard  to  his 
mother,  despondent  even  before  the  prospect  of  seeing 
Linda. 

But  little  by  little,  though  ignorant  of  music,  he 
found  himself  intoxicated  by  it.  His  fears  and  his 
heavy  sense  of  responsibility  slipped  from  him.  He 
thought  only  of  Linda,  sitting  so  near  him  that  if  he 
leaned  forward  a  little  he  could  catch  a  faint,  almost 
imperceptible,  perfume  like  spring  flowers,  which 
came  from  her  dress. 

A  wave  of  something  he  could  not  resist  swept  him 
on,  with  the  symphony,  to  a  climax  of  ecstasy.  He 
waited,  sitting  very  still  and  tense,  for  the  moment  when 
Linda  would  turn  and  look  at  him.  At  last,  as  he 
had  expected,  she  moved  her  head. 
[115] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  Wasn't  it  beautiful ! "  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes — "  said  Humphrey — then,  abruptly — "it 
made  me  feel  how  much  I  love  you." 

The  girl  started  and  grew  suddenly  pale.  Perhaps 
her  nerves  were  still  shaken  by  the  passion  of  Strauss's 
symphonic  poem.  She  felt  it  was  cruel  of  Humphrey 
to  speak  to  her  at  that  moment,  suddenly,  when  she 
was  unexpectant  and  off  her  guard,  but  even  in  her 
resentment  and  alarm  something  in  her  soul  responded 
to  his  voice  as  it  had  responded  to  the  music. 

She  tried  to  answer,  to  protest — but  her  words 
were  unintelligible. 

Desperately,  as  if  in  appeal,  she  glanced  toward  the 
other  side  of  the  box.  The  two  old  ladies  with  whom 
they  were  sitting  had  at  last  risen  and  were  chatting 
together  as  they  gathered  up  their  furs  in  preparation 
for  departure;  Linda  also  rose  with  a  growing  sug- 
gestion of  panic. 

"Miss  Godwin,  Miss  Godwin,"  she  cried  appeal- 
ingly.  "Will  you  take  me  home  in  your  motor? 
Julie  has  ours  for  all  the  afternoon." 

She  felt  that  she  must  instantly  provide  for  herself 
a  way  of  escape,  be  free  from  the  spell  of  Humphrey's 
voice  and  eyes. 

But  on  their  way  to  the  street  he  was  close  at  her 
side,  touching  her  almost,  pleading  in  her  ears: 
[  116] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"When  can  I  see  you  ?  When  may  I  come  ?  When 
will  you  answer  me?" 

And  he  was  conscious  that  Linda  thought  only  of 
getting  away  from  him  and  that  he  could  not  let  her  go. 
He  seemed  to  actually  hear  her  heart  beating  in  her 
side;  he  was  pursuing  something  wild,  helpless  and 
innocent,  but  something  that  must  be  his,  that  called 
to  him  even  as  it  fled. 

Not  until  Linda  was  safely  shut  in  beside  Miss  God- 
win in  the  motor  did  she  feel  safe.  Humphrey  stood 
at  the  door.  Conventionality  and  a  sense  of  being 
observed  had  made  him  his  usual  self  again.  Only 
his  eyes  were  brilliant  and  intent. 

"I  shall  come  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  Linda,  as  the 
car  started,  speaking  as  if  it  had  been  an  agreement 
between  them,  and  before  she  could  reply  they  were 
borne  away. 

"What  a  nice  concert!"  said  Miss  Godwin  comfort- 
ably. "That  piece  by  Strauss  was  wonderful.  I'm 
sorry  the  other  young  people  couldn't  come,  but  the 
Wylde  boy  is  very  agreeable,  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Linda  agreed  that  he  was,  secretly  trying  to  dominate 
her  inner  turmoil  by  repeating  to  herself  that  she  never 
wanted  to  see  him  again.  When  she  was  removed 
from  the  personal  influence  Humphrey  possessed  over 
her,  her  vague  uncertainties  about  him  returned. 

She  felt  that  she  did  not  know  him  enough,  some- 
[117] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

thing — was  it  what  Walter  Jackson  had  hinted? — 
restrained  the  natural  impulse  she  had  to  entirely 
trust  him. 

"Where  there  is  no  faith  there  can  be  no  love," 
she  repeated  to  herself,  with  the  young  girl's  terrible 
faith  in  this  axiom. 

At  first  she  thought  she  would  try  to  avoid  that  in- 
terview insisted  upon  for  the  following  day.  After- 
ward, as  she  grew  calmer,  more  certain  of  herself,  she 
reflected  that  to  avoid  it  now  would  be  only  to  put  it 
off.  Better  perhaps  to  have  it  over  with,  once  for  all , 
and  behind  her.  Deciding  this  she  felt  very  calm  and 
worldly-wise. 

But  when  Humphrey  came  he  would  not  listen  to 
her  denial  or  her  doubts;  he  masterfully  pushed  aside 
both  her  dignity  and  her  scruples;  he  was  intolerable, 
but,  as  usual,  when  she  was  with  him,  very  nearly 
irresistible.  Instead  of  sending  him  away  a  dis- 
carded and  hopeless  suitor,  she  let  him  go  feeling  that 
his  battle  was  half  won ;  instead  of  retiring  to  her  own 
room  with  all  the  calm  of  maidenly  self-possession, 
she  fled  to  it  in  a  pitiable  rout,  to  bury  her  hot  face  in 
the  sofa  cushions,  tingling  with  anger  and  excitement 
and  dismay  and  some  racking,  undefined  feeling,  to 
which  she  could  not  give  a  name.  There  was  but  one 
thing  left  to  her-r-flight. 

The  next  day  she  announced  to  her  sister  that  she 
[118] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

was  going  away — no  matter  where — so  long  as  it  was 
at  once.  She  said  she  was  ill,  nervous,  had  taken  a 
cold,  was  restless  and  bored,  piled  reasons  upon  reasons 
to  make  Julie  see  the  necessity  of  an  instant  change 
of  air. 

"Where  will  you  go?"  asked  the  latter  finally, 
with  judicious  deliberation.  On  her  side  she  was 
inclined  to  think  it  might  be  well  to  send  Linda  out  of 
town  for  a  while.  It  would  break  up,  temporarily  at 
least,  the  intimacy  with  Dioneme  Wylde  (Julie  was 
happily  ignorant  of  the  complications  in  regard  to 
Humphrey) . 

"I  will  go  to  Aunt  Evelyn's,  at  Lockton,  and  you 
mustn't  let  any  one  know  where  I  am.  I  want  a  real 
rest,  no  bothers!" 

A  look  of  bird-like  cunning  came  into  Julie's  sen- 
sible spinster  countenance.  She  cocked  her  head  on 
one  side  with  conscious  archness. 

"Running  from  a  suitor?"  she  asked,  delighted 
with  her  perspicacity. 

"No  danger,"  replied  Linda.  "One  has  to  run 
after  them  in  New  York."  Shame  at  her  own  deceit 
colored  her  cheeks  scarlet,  and  she  turned  to  look 
out  of  the  window  so  that  her  sister  would  not  notice. 
But  Julie  had  finished  with  playfulness,  and  was  back 
in  the  matter-of  fact. 

"  When  do  you  want  to  start  ? "  she  asked. 
[119] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"This  afternoon — the  2.40  express  gets  to  Lockton 
at  8.  Marie  can  pack  in  no  time.  I  sha'n't  want 
much  there." 

"  I  don't  know  what  father  will  say ! " 

"Oh,  father!"  Linda's  accent  was  not  disrespect- 
ful, but  showed  she  placed  no  false  value  on  herself  as 
a  factor  in  her  parent's  existence.  Mr.  Arnold's  affec- 
tion for  his  children  expressed  itself  in  large  cheques 
and  perfect  enfranchisement.  But  Julie  felt  that  her 
own  authority  as  her  younger  sister's  guardian  could 
not  be  maintained  except  by  further  parley. 

"What  about  your  engagements?"  she  asked  se- 
verely. This  to  her  was  a  delicate  and  vital  point, 
but  Linda  assured  her  that  all  her  engagements  could 
be  broken  painlessly  as  to  the  other  contractors  and 
without  loss  of  her  own  reputation  for  good  manners. 

"  Besides,  I  am  really  not  well,"  she  said,  and  felt  it. 
She  had  spent  a  sleepless  night,  and  her  usual  perfect 
physical  poise  was  shaken.  But  even  if  she  had  spoken 
artfully  she  could  have  been  no  better  inspired,  for  any 
hint  of  ill-health  on  Linda's  part  was  the  one  thing 
which  could  entirely  rout  and  destroy  her  sister's 
prejudices,  principles,  and  aims  in  life. 

If  Linda  had  a  threatening  sore  throat  Julie  was 

capable  of  putting  off  any  number  of  dinner-guests, 

absenting  herself  from  the  annual  meeting  of  the  Board 

of  Managers  of  the  Mission  to  Seamen,  wearing  an 

[  120] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

unbecoming  and  vulgarly  cut  frock  and  letting  the 
chef  indulge  his  Gallic  fancy  in  unexpurgated  menus. 
By  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Julie  had  a  passion,  and 
so  could  never  be  uninteresting. 

As  was  to  have  been  expected,  therefore,  half -past 
two  o'clock  that  afternoon  found  Linda  and  her  maid 
at  the  Grand  Central  Station,  ready  to  start  for 
Lockton.  Nothing  but  a  suspicious,  nervous  haste  in 
the  young  girl's  motions,  a  somewhat  feverish  bright- 
ness in  her  eyes  would  have  made  any  one  suspect 
that  it  was  a  flight.  Once  or  twice  she  looked  over 
her  shoulder,  fearfully,  as  if  she  expected  to  see  Hum- 
phrey advancing  from  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  suddenly 
warned  of  her  plan  of  escape  by  love,  the  sorcerer, 
who  seemed  to  be  his  ally. 

But  in  this  case  that  powerful  coadjutor,  being,  no 
doubt,  engaged  with  his  tricks  elsewhere,  failed  Hum- 
phrey completely.  Nothing  of  what  was  passing  in 
the  Grand  Central  Station,  or  of  the  necessity  of  his 
presence  there,  entered  his  mind,  and  Linda,  still 
looking  nervously  over  her  shoulder  for  a  familiar 
face,  saw  only  Emma  Cooper. 

The  typist  was  making  her  way  through  the  jostling, 
unruly  crowd  with  her  usual  expression  of  efficiency 
and  independence.  No  one  in  looking  at  her  could 
doubt  for  a  moment  that  Miss  Cooper  would  safely 
arrive  at  the  place  where  she  intended  to  go;  it  was 
[121] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

equally  impossible  to  entertain  any  fears  as  to  the 
safety  of  her  pocket-book,  her  umbrella,  or  her  hand- 


When  she  saw  Linda  she  bowed,  smiled,  and  hesi- 
tated a  moment  whether  to  approach  or  not.  But 
the  girl  made  a  slight  gesture  and  Emma  joined  her, 
to  the  obvious  disapproval  of  Marie,  the  maid. 

"I'm  going  to  Albany  to  see  my  step-mother," 
Miss  Cooper  explained.  "Mrs.  Wylde  gave  me  the 
money  and  said  I  could  stay  a  week;  real  kind  of  her, 
wasn't  it?  But  she  isn't  well,  herself,  she  says,  and 
has  no  work  for  me  just  now." 

"Isn't  well!"  exclaimed  Linda,  alarmed,  but  the 
time  had  come  for  their  train  to  start  and  they  must 
not  lose  a  moment  in  getting  to  their  seats. 

"Come  with  me  in  the  drawing-room  car,"  said 
Linda  impetuously.  "I  must  hear  about  Mrs. 
Wylde." 

Miss  Cooper,  highly  flattered,  but  concealing  her 
emotions  with  what  she  conceived  as  quiet  elegance, 
followed  Linda,  and  they  sat  down  in  adjacent  chairs. 
The  maid  found  a  seat  on  the  sofa  at  the  end  of  the  car 
whence  she  watched  them  with  inquisitive  wonder. 
An  English  lady's  maid  is  surprised  at  nothing,  a 
French  one  at  everything.  It  may  be  argued  which 
attitude  toward  the  world  shows  the  greater  omni- 
science. 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Now,  do  tell  me  about  it!"  said  Linda,  when  the 
train  had  started.  "  Is  she  really  ill  ?  She  seemed  so 
well  when  I  saw  her  four  days  ago!" 

"No,  she  isn't  really  what  you  would  call  ill," 
replied  Miss  Cooper,  adjusting  herself  primly  in  her 
chair  and  glancing  about  the  car  to  see  how  many 
people  were  looking  at  them.  The  moment  was  a 
most  enjoyable  one  to  her. 

"She  doesn't  seem  like  herself,  somehow.  They 
say  she  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  canary  alive.  I 
guess  she  works  her  brain  too  hard.  That's  awfully 
hard  on  women." 

"  Has  she  seen  a  doctor  ? ' 

"  No.  She  won't  have  a  doctor,  and  Mr.  Humphrey 
just  gives  way  to  her." 

Linda  felt  an  impulse  to  say  that  apparently  he  did 
not  often  do  this,  but  checked  herself,  not  wishing  to 
question,  but  Emma  answered,  as  it  were,  her  un- 
spoken words. 

"He's  got  more  influence  over  her  than  any  one 
else,  Mr.  Humphrey;  he  ought  to  make  her  have 
some  medical  advice." 

"There's  her  old  friend  Dr.  Macklevaine,"  said 
Linda,  making  a  mental  record  of  Miss  Cooper's  testi- 
mony in  regard  to  Humphrey. 

"Yes,  but  she'd  never  consult  him  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. She  says  the  roles  of  friend  and  physician  can't 
[  123] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

be  doubled  by  even  the  best  actor;  you  know  that  cute 
way  she  has  of  talking!" 

"I  do  wish  I  could  have  seen  her  before  I  went 
away!"  exclaimed  Linda. 

"She's  been  expecting  you  for  some  days,"  said 
Emma.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  reproach  in  her 
tone. 

"It  has  been  impossible  for  me  to  go,"  Linda  re- 
plied with  a  kind  of  vehement  regret,  but  the  reproach 
Emma  had  implied  could  not  be  answered.  She  felt 
a  desire  to  change  the  subject. 

"  What  are  you  reading  ?  "  she  asked,  taking  up  the 
book  in  Miss  Cooper's  lap.  It  bore  the  ponderous 
title:  "A  Pluralistic  Universe."  Linda  marvelled, 
but  Miss  Cooper  showed  a  simple  pride  in  her  choice 
of  literature.  Living  in  an  atmosphere  of  what  she 
thought  culture  she  felt  it  was  becoming  of  her  to  be 
in  the  picture,  as  it  were.  She  had  become  uneasily 
self-conscious  about  what  she  called  her  mind  and 
was  always  taking  her  intellectual  temperature  by 
reading  a  few  chapters  in  some  reputedly  profound 
book,  to  see  if  she  understood  it. 

"I've  only  just  begun  this,"  she  explained.  "I 
don't  have  much  time  for  reading,  and  when  I  get 
home  tired  at  night,  a  novel  is  more  restful,  somehow." 

"  Are  you  still  at  the  same  boarding-house  ?  "  asked 
Linda. 

[  124  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  still  at  Mindelbaum's.  Sometimes 
I  think  I'll  make  a  change,  because  the  people  there 
are  not  as  refined  as  I  should  like,  but  it's  pretty  clean, 
and  the  food's  good,  so  I  stay.  I've  got  a  real  nice 
room  too.  It's  small,  but  I  hung  all  the  walls  with 
blue  and  pink  figured  silkoline,  with  curtains  and  bed- 
cover of  the  same  and  it's  quite  dainty  and  pretty. 
Wherever  I  am  I  like  to  have  things  home-like.  Old 
Mrs.  Candy,  who  has  the  first  floor  front  (her  husband 
works  with  Lindeberg  &  Strumm,  the  firm  I  typewrite 
for  sometimes)  says  she  just  loves  to  come  to  my  room, 
it's  so  lady-like." 

At  times  the  annals  of  Mrs.  Mindelbaum's  boarding- 
house  had  for  Linda  a  homely  fascination,  but  to- 
day she  began  to  wish  that  she  had  not  insisted  on 
Emma's  company.  She  would  have  liked  to  be  alone 
to  brood  over  the  interesting  complications  of  her  own 
life.  There  would  be  even  a  melancholy  pleasure  in 
contemplating  what  she  felt  was  a  difficult  and  ro- 
mantic situation.  But  she  did  not  wish  to  hurt  her 
companion's  feelings  by  suggesting  any  change,  so 
let  her  talk  on.  She  even  asked  an  encouraging  ques- 
tion, racking  her  brains  to  remember  a  name  and  an 
incident. 

"How  is  that  little  manicure  getting  on.  Flora — 
something — I  can't  think  of  her  other  name  ?  " 

"Flora  Kelly? — oh!  I  feel  real  worried  about  her 
[  125] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

sometimes.  I  guess  if  the  other  boarders  treated  her 
better  she'd  have  more  chance.  But  they  keep  whis- 
pering to  each  other  about  the  '  downward  path '  and 
not  passing  the  butter  to  her  when  she  comes  in  to 
meals;  it's  enough  to  make  any  girl  seek  other  com- 
pany. She's  looking  very  pretty  just  now,  doing  her 
hair  a  new  way  that  makes  it  stay  in  behind  the  ears, 
and  she's  got  one  of  those  new  tight  skirts.  When  she 
wore  it  down  to  dinner  the  first  time,  Mrs.  Candy 
nudged  Lizzie  Graham  and  said,  'By  your  fruits  ye 
shall  know  them.'  She  pretended  to  speak  low,  but 
we  could  all  hear.  Of  course  it  was  kind  of  a  mis- 
placed quotation,  but  Mrs.  Candy  isn't  in  the  least 
literary  and  there  was  nothing  misplaced  about  her 
meaning.  I  saw  Flora  get  red,  and  first  she  looked 
as  if  she  were  going  to  cry,  and  then  she  got  angry  and 
just  put  up  her  chin  and  wouldn't  speak  to  anybody, 
not  even  to  little  old  Mr.  Moses,  who's  got  asthma  so 
badly,  and  is  always  nice  and  kind  to  everybody. 
What  I  think  is  it's  no  use  to  make  little  Kelly  feel 
a  sort  of  suspect  in  her  own  boarding-house.  She 
hasn't  got  any  home  or  family  or  any  friends  outside 
to  do  her  any  good.  You  don't  know  what  a  place  like 
Levey's  Manicuring  Parlors  is,  Miss  Arnold,  nor  do  I, 
but  I  have  kind  of  an  idea.  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd 
have  a  good  talk  with  Flora,  and  just  show  her  she'd 
got  one  friend  at  Mindelbaum's,  anyway.  Well,  I 
[126] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

went  to  her  room  that  night.  It's  the  hall  bedroom 
on  my  floor  and  was  all  out  of  order  with  shoes  and 
petticoats  lying  around.  Flora  was  in  her  kimona, 
putting  cold-cream  on  her  face,  but  she  wiped  it  off 
with  a  towel  and  seemed  glad  to  see  me.  We  talked 
for  a  while  about  that  story  of  the  Russian  Grand 
Duke  marrying  Miss  Sherman  that  was  in  the  paper, 
and  about  the  snowfall  and  how  hard  it  was  getting  to 
work,  mornings,  with  the  trolleys  all  stuck.  I  couldn't 
help  seeing  a  theatre  programme  lying  on  her  wash- 
stand,  one  of  the  Hudson  Theatre  ones,  and  she  had  a 
two-dollar-and-a-half  bunch  of  violets  in  a  gla^s,  pretty 
withered,  but  I  saw  by  the  kind  of  ribbon  on  them 
they  were  Thorley's  violets,  not  just  bought  on  the 
street. 

"  'Been  going  to  the  play?'     I  asked  her  casually. 

"  '  Yes,  a  friend  took  me  to  see  Mary  Mannering 
last  night,'  she  said,  speaking  as  if  she  went  to  theatres 
like  the  Hudson  every  day  of  her  life.  I  waited  for 
her  to  tell  me  more,  I  knew  she  would. 

" '  Oh,  Miss  Cooper,'  she  said,  just  as  I  thought. 
'I  do  wish  you  could  meet  my  friend.  He's  one  of 
the  real  Four  Hundred!'  I  asked  her  how  she  met 
him  herself  and  then  the  whole  story  came  out.  She 
went  to  a  cinematograph  show  one  afternoon,  just 
to  pass  the  time,  as  it  was  a  half-holiday,  and  while 
she  was  there  this  man  came  in  with  a  lady  and  a  little 
[127] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

boy.  I  guess  they  had  brought  the  little  boy  to  see  the 
flying-machines.  I  don't  know.  Anyway,  the  lady 
got  faint  or  sick  or  something  and  had  to  be  taken 
away,  but  the  child  wouldn't  go  because  the  flying- 
machines  were  just  on  and  he  must  have  been  kind 
of  a  spoiled  child,  anyway.  So  they  made  him  promise 
to  be  good,  and  sit  still  and  the  gentleman  said  he'd 
be  back  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  then  he  and  the  lady, 
it  was  his  sister,  hurried  away.  Well,  directly  they 
were  gone,  the  flying-machines  came  to  an  end,  and 
they  put  on  a  murder  story,  and  the  child  got  fright- 
ened. Flora  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  I  guess  she  liked  it 
because  he  was  so  well-dressed  and  stylish  and  all 
that — so  she  talked  to  him  and  kept  him  quiet,  and 
then  the  man  came  back.  That  was  the  way  they 
got  acquainted.  Old  Mrs.  Candy  would  say  right 
away  that  Flora  was  nice  to  the  little  boy  for  her  own 
reasons,  but  I  am  willing  to  give  her  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt.  She's  a  kind-hearted  little  thing,  and  always 
liked  children,  anyhow. 

"She  told  me  all  this,  very  fully,  but  she  didn't 
say  much  about  what  happened  afterward,  except  that 
he  had  been  very  kind  to  her  and  treated  her  with  as 
much  respect  as  if  she  lived  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

" '  You  read  a  lot  of  novels,  Flora,'  I  said  to  her, 
'and  you  know  the  kind  of  adventures  that  begin 
like  this?' 

[  128] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

" '  Yes,  I  know,'  she  said,  in  a  rather  independent 
way,  'and  that's  why  it's  all  right;  if  you  remember, 
the  girls  in  the  books  never  did  know!' 

"I  told  her  she  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  good- 
looking  and  hadn't  got  any  too  many  friends  at  Min- 
delbaum's. 

"  '  I've  got  you,  anyway,'  she  said,  and  all  of  a  sud- 
den she  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  kissed 
me. 

"There's  something  about  the  little  creature  you 
can't  help  liking,  though  when  I  think  of  her  slack 
ways  and  her  foolishness,  I've  no  patience  with  her. 
Well,  there's  where  it  is,  Miss  Arnold.  This  friend,  as 
she  calls  him,  takes  her  to  the  theatre  every  once  in  a 
while,  and  though  the  other  boarders  don't  know  any- 
thing about  it  now  they  are  sure  to  find  out  and  they'll 
think  the  worst  things  they  can  possibly  think." 

It  was  a  very  old  and  commonplace  story  that  Emma 
told,  but  to  Linda  it  was  almost  new.  Poetry  made 
it  more  romantic,  novels  gave  it  a  more  sombre  tragedy, 
but  here  it  was,  surprisingly,  a  part  of  life  itself,  the 
life  that  went  on  all  around  her. 

Flora  Kelly's  adventure  and  the  possible  fate  hang- 
ing over  her  now  absorbed  Linda  painfully  and  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else. 

But  Miss  Cooper  had  suddenly  become  aware  that 
the  tale  she  had  been  telling  was  perhaps  not  of  the 
[  129] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

kind  that  are  related  to  young  girls  like  Linda.  She 
was  filled  with  humiliation.  Had  she  perhaps  been 
too  outspoken,  unrefined,  she  whose  whole  aim  was 
to  be  lady-like  as  well  as  intellectual  ?  It  was  a  cruel 
and  piercing  question.  What  could  she  say  now  ? 
How  could  she  apologize  if  she  had  made  a  mistake  ? 
Her  volubility  had  come  to  an  end  as  abruptly  as  a 
flow  of  water  is  stopped  by  the  closing  of  a  spigot.  In 
the  most  distressing  embarrassment  she  turned  her 
pocket-book  over  and  over  in  her  lap. 

Linda,  surprised  at  the  long  silence,  looked  at  her 
companion  curiously,  and  immediately  divined  what 
was  troubling  her.  She  was  surprised.  Did  Emma 
think  any  girl  of  twenty,  fairly  well-read  and  intelli- 
gent, was  in  the  present  day  ignorant  of  the  very  exist- 
ence of  wickedness!  She  smiled  to  herself  at  the  idea, 
not  knowing  really  what  either  knowledge  or  ignorance 
meant,  unconscious  of  the  fantastic  nature  of  her 
own  pretensions  to  understanding. 

But  she  must  not  let  Emma  remain  any  longer  in  her 
visible  state  of  perturbation. 

"Poor  little  Flora  Kelly!"  she  said.  "One  can't 
help  feeling  sorry  for  her!  It  makes  me  think  of  a 
story  just  like  it  my  sister  told  me  the  other  day — 
only  I  hope  this  will  have  a  happier  ending!" 

Emma's  face  lightened.  Then  her  offence  had  not 
been  as  great  as  she  feared!  It  was  so  hard  to  tell 
[  130] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

what  people  like  Miss  Arnold  and  her  sister  did  or  did 
not  talk  about! 

In  spite  of  her  reassurance,  however,  she  felt  it  just 
as  well,  for  the  moment,  to  choose  another  topic. 

"Life  doesn't  have  endings  like  books,  often!"  she 
said  with  an  appropriate  sigh.  "By  the  way,  how 
did  you  like  the  ending  of  Mrs.  Wylde's  last  book, 
Miss  Arnold  ?  " 

By  this  cunning  transition,  Emma  felt  she  showed 
qualities  of  tact  and  ease  which  were  lost  in  her  present 
condition  of  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

PENDING  the  final  decision  of  Mr.  Garborg  as  to 
the  designs  for  his  medical  college,  there  was  a 
cessation  of  activity  in  the  office  of  Peters  and  Wylde, 
and  much  leisure  for  thought  and  conversation. 
Humphrey  smoked  numberless  cigarettes  and  dis- 
cussed with  Norris  by  the  hour  the  advisability  of  enter- 
ing for  the  Greek  Church  competition.  But  they  felt 
that  their  future  hung,  more  or  less,  on  the  definite 
opinion  of  Mr.  Garborg. 

The  medical  college  was  the  first  real  opportunity 
they  had  had  to  show  what  they  could  do.  Already, 
poring  over  their  blue-prints  as  a  musician  pores  over 
a  score,  they  saw  it  rising  before  them  in  its  completed 
beauty  of  line  and  proportion.  It  was  to  be  the  be- 
ginning of  their  reputation  and  their  fortunes.  To 
Humphrey  it  promised,  above  everything  else,  the  first 
step  toward  independence.  His  mother  paid  the 
household  bills  and  gave  him  a  liberal  yearly  allow- 
ance. That  was  as  it  should  be,  for  she  was,  compara- 
tively speaking,  a  rich  woman  and  all  his  father's 
money  had  been  left  to  her.  But  Humphrey  longed 
for  the  freedom  of  knowing  that  he  was  sufficient  to 
[  132] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

himself.  He  was  essentially  an  American  and  wished 
to  stand  or  fall  by  his  personal  effort  and  achievement, 
not  as  a  product  of  by-gone  energies.  The  individual 
in  him  clamored  for  a  justification  of  its  existence. 

He  felt  himself  bound  to  the  future,  but  through 
no  obligations  from  the  past,  being  a  product  of 
that  robust  individualism  which  makes  the  American 
conceive  of  force  as  a  thing  which  must  proceed  from 
him  and  not  to  him.  The  people  of  the  old-world 
monarchies  think  of  their  country  as  the  child  thinks 
of  the  father,  the  American  thinks  of  the  United  States 
as  the  father  does  of  the  child. 

Now  in  addition  to  Humphrey's  instinctive  impulse 
toward  independence  was  the  desire  to  stand  well  in 
Linda's  eyes,  to  win  some  prize  in  the  metropolitan 
tourney,  so  that  she  might  be  forced  to  fix  her  atten- 
tion on  him  and  applaud.  He  thought  of  her  as  the 
spectator  before  whom  he  must  play  his  part  among 
contenders,  but  she  was  also  the  goal  and  the  award. 

He  had  come  away  from  his  last  agitated  interview 
with  her  feeling  that  she  was  almost  won.  The  very 
fierceness  of  her  struggles  to  repulse  him  made  him 
suspect  that  she  felt  the  mastery  of  the  power  she 
denied.  When  he  heard  of  her  flight  he  smiled  to 
himself,  thinking  it  a  betrayal  of  weakness,  well  con- 
tented that  she  should  distrust  her  own  self-com- 
mand. He  was  willing  to  wait.  Once  or  twice  his 
[  133] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

mother  mentioned  having  had  letters  from  her,  and 
marvelled  that  she  said  nothing  of  her  whereabouts, 
asking  only  that  anything  for  her  should  be  sent  to  the 
New  York  house  from  whence  it  would  be  forwarded. 

"Seems  to  be  in  hiding,"  commented  Humphrey, 
when  this  fact  was  revealed  to  him,  and  smiled  to  him- 
self, as  at  some  bit  of  humor  which  he  alone  could  per- 
ceive. These  days  of  inaction  and  uncertainty  were 
not,  as  a  whole,  unpleasant  ones. 

His  mother,  as  he  put  it,  evasively  even  to  himself, 
was  "  better."  With  the  eternal  buoyancy  of  human 
nature,  the  constantly  reviving  hope  which  alone 
makes  living  possible,  he  persuaded  himself  that  her 
use  of  stimulants  had  perhaps  been  but  a  temporary 
thing,  induced  by  nervous  strain  and  ill  health.  As 
soon  as  she  was  physically  stronger  (and  already  he 
seemed  to  see  a  change  in  her,  or  fancied  he  did)  she 
would  no  longer  feel  the  temptation  of  alcohol.  When 
he  recalled  the  moment  of  despair  in  which  it  had 
seemed  necessary  to  sacrifice  all  hopes  of  his  own  to 
the  promise  he  had  made  his  father  it  seemed  incredi- 
ble to  him,  as  fantastic  as  a  nightmare. 

Garborg  finally  decided  to  build  his  college  accord- 
ing to  their  plans,  and  when  he  communicated  this  to 
them  by  letter,  Humphrey  was  assured  that  things 
were  swinging  into  their  right  place  at  last,  and  that 
life  would  now  become  normal  and  consistent.  He 
[  134] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

was,  himself,  one  of  those  perfectly  sane  beings  to 
whom  happiness  seems  the  natural  law  of  existence, 
other  things  being  incidental,  against  the  rules. 

He  and  Peters  decided  they  would  give  a  supper  to 
celebrate,  not  ostensibly,  but  only  in  their  secret  con- 
sciousness, the  triumph  over  Garborg  and  the  archi- 
tecture of  Christian  IV. 

"  Where  shall  it  be  ?  "  asked  Humphrey. 

"  The  Comedians"  Peters  replied,  indicating  a  small 
Bohemian  club  of  which  they  were  both  members. 

"  I'll  pay  my  share,"  said  Humphrey,  "  but  you  must 
give  the  supper.  We  don't  want  to  give  it  as  a,  firm, 
they  might  divine  it  was  a  sort  of  cackle  over  our 
success." 

"All  right,"  assented  Peters,  "I'll  prove  what  I've 
always  told  you :  that  I'm  a  host  in  myself.  Only,  to 
square  things  up  and  give  you  a  chance  to  make  a 
reputation  for  hospitality,  there  ought  to  be  a  second 
supper,  where  I  pay  a  share  and  you  receive  alone." 

"Have  to  wait  for  another  happy  occasion,"  said 
Humphrey,  allowing  his  mind  to  dwell  for  a  moment 
on  the  possibility  of  one  of  those  romantic  announce- 
ments generally  accompanied  by  festivity. 

There  were  eight  men  at  the  supper.     Forbes  and 

Keasbey,  two  brother  architects;    Charles  Notman, 

the  artist;    Thome,  a  newspaper  editor;    Lewis  and 

Hoyt,   real    estate   brokers;     Livingstone   Winthrop, 

[135  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

club-man  and  patron  of  the  drama;  and,  lastly,  the 
Vicomte  de  Champery,  whom  Humphrey  invited  be- 
cause the  Frenchman  had  brought  letters  of  introduc- 
tion to  him,  and  it  was  obligatory  that  he  should  be 
entertained  in  one  way  or  another.  Naturally,  they 
talked  about  America,  it  was  de  Champery's  first  visit, 
especially  New  York. 

"A  city  of  mirthless  waste,"  growled  Joe  Keasbey, 
who  had  lived  ten  years  with  Paris  the  courtesan,  and 
foresworn  legitimate  ties  forever.  "  Puritanism  drunk 
and  carousing!" 

The  Frenchman,  who  did  not  speak  English  fluently, 
stuck  to  the  safe  course  of  banal  compliment,  but  Not- 
man  took  the  matter  seriously,  and  gave  a  long  tirade 
on  the  beauty  of  New  York,  the  new  beauty  of  massed 
towers,  mountain-ranges  of  brick  and  mortar,  shadow- 
filled  canyon-like  streets  topped  with  a  strip  of  blazing 
Spanish  blue,  aisle-like  vistas  of  gray  thoroughfares 
ending  in  a  far-away  glimmer  of  opal  haze.  But  the 
newspaper  man  did  not  live  for  beauty,  and  turned 
the  conversation  on  politics  and  an  ex-President, 
who  charged  into  the  dinner  as  he  had  charged  up  a 
famous  hill,  and  for  three  courses  was  attacked  and 
defended  with  a  vigor  which  proved  him  the  represen- 
tative of  that  law  of  worthy  life  which  is  the  law  of 
strife. 

Afterward,  when  the  smoke  of  this  engagement  had 
[  136  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

cleared,  the  talk  became  more  mellow  and  anecdotal. 
Humor  obtained  an  ascendency  over  spirits  softened 
by  wine  and  good  food,  and  the  theme  of  woman  was 
also  introduced,  coming  slyly  in  at  the  end  of  the  din- 
ner like  a  dancer  with  a  lifted  skirt. 

When  Humphrey  reached  home  that  night  he  found 
his  mother  still  sitting  up,  writing  on  a  short  story 
which  she  had  promised  to  one  of  the  magazines. 
When  she  saw  him,  she  put  it  aside,  remarking  that 
she  had  done  enough  for  that  evening. 

"Tell  me  about  the  dinner,"  she  said. 

Humphrey  described  the  guests  and  repeated  what 
he  thought  worthy  to  be  repeated  of  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"And  what  did  De  Champery  think  of  it  all  ?"  she 
asked.  "How  does  he  like  American  men?" 

"Probably  American  men  will  never  know,"  Hum- 
phrey replied,  "unless  he  writes  a  book." 

"  And  American  women  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  hear  him  on  that  subject — *  sirens  who 
have  never  been  taught  to  sing  and  who  wear  their 
hair  short,'  was  one  thing  he  said  to  me  confidentially 
to-night." 

"The  American  woman  has  never  learned  Vart  de 
sefaire  aimer,"  observed  Dioneme;  "all  she  wants  is 
admiration  and  that  she  gets,  even  with  her  siren  hair 
short,  as  your  Frenchman  puts  it." 
[  137] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"  He  said  that,  generally  speaking,  he  found  Ameri- 
cans shy  and  self-distrustful.  Their  boasting  he 
thought  a  naif  attempt  to  make  themselves  important 
and  popular,  as  a  child  brags  of  its  new  mittens  so  that 
the  other  children  will  treat  him  with  respect." 

"We  have  certainly  become  wonderfully  tame,  al- 
most timid,"  said  Dioneme,  "when  one  thinks  whom 
we  descended  from — shouting  old  sea-vikings,  stringy, 
Indian-fighting  pilgrim  fathers,  Dutchmen  who  de- 
fended the  Netherlands,  and  all  the  rest  of  them!" 

"  I  think  we  could  face  oceans  and  wars  and  Indians 
all  right,"  said  Humphrey;  "we're  still  settlers  and 
fighters  and  barbarians  at  heart.  It's  this  modern 
civilization  that  embarrasses  us.  We're  like  gypsies 
at  court!" 

"But  we're  individually  so  shrinking,  no  one  ever 
does  what  some  one  else  hasn't  done.  Now,  for  in- 
stance, imagine  getting  on  a  horse,  late  at  night,  and 
galloping  down  Fifth  Avenue  from  One  Hundred  and 
Eleventh  Street  to  Washington  Square.  Could  any- 
thing be  more  glorious!  But  not  a  human  being  in 
New  York,  not  even  a  mounted  policeman,  would  dare 
to  do  it.  No,  it  would  be 'queer' " 

"And,  incidentally,  you'd  be  arrested,"  remarked 
Humphrey. 

"And,  another  thing,"  went  on  Dioneme,  "why 
don't  we  use  our  city,  climb  its  towers,  walk  on  its 
[  138] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

bridges,  explore  its  water-fronts?  It's  only  like  a 
great  factory  engine;  we  set  it  going  in  the  morning, 
and  it  grinds  out  a  living  for  us,  and  at  night  we  stop 
it,  and  that's  all." 

"You  forget  Broadway!"  observed  Humphrey. 

"Oh,  Broadway — I  suppose  you  mean  what  they 
call  the  '  White  Way ' —  is  only  the  noisy  dinner  of  the 
factory  hands." 

Dioneme  meditated  for  a  moment,  then  sat  up  very 
straight,  with  a  childish  animation  and  eagerness  in 
her  eyes. 

"Humphrey!"  she  exclaimed,  "don't  you  think  it 
would  be  delightful  to  walk  across  the  Queensboro 
Bridge  late,  late  at  night — a  winter  night  like  this ! " 

"Get  your  hat!"  said  Humphrey  briefly. 

"Thank  God  for  you,  Humphrey!"  breathed  Dion- 
eme as  she  went  in  search  of  her  outer  garments. 

A  few  moments  later  they  started  in  a  taxi-cab, 
for  even  Dioneme's  enthusiasm  was  unequal  to  walk- 
ing the  whole  distance. 

"How  strange,"  she  exclaimed,  when  they  were  on 
their  way,  "that  once  in  every  twenty-four  hours  we 
must  go  through  this  long  black  tunnel  of  night!" 
She  leaned  forward,  looking  eagerly  out  of  the  window 
as  if  she  were  seeing  everything  for  the  first  time. 

It  was  a  warm  night  for  winter,  with  a  starless, 
opaque  sky,  and  the  asphalt  pavement,  wet  from  re- 
[  139] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

cent  rain,  was  tinted  with  long  reflections  from  varying 
lights,  violet,  lemon  color,  orange  and  gold.  To  the 
west,  over  Broadway,  the  heavens  glowed  a  dull, 
smooth  rose  as  if  a  fire  burned  steadily  beneath  them. 
As  they  neared  the  bridge,  they  found  the  side  street 
a  yawning  chasm  surrounded  by  formless  scaffolding 
on  which  clustered  red  lantern  signals  of  danger. 

"Chaos  here!"  said  Dioneme,  as  they  turned  back, 
"but  that's  New  York — always  in  the  agony  of  dis- 
solution, or  new  birth." 

Finally  they  were  able  to  leave  their  taxi-cab,  and 
mount  to  the  promenade  of  the  bridge. 

"What  silence!"  she  cried.  "We  are  quite  alone. 
I  don't  even  hear  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  on  the  drive, 
or  of  a  tram,  or  an  automobile."  They  walked  briskly 
along  the  high-swung  way,  looking  out  over  the  im- 
mensity of  earth  and  sky  and  water,  and  as  they  went 
on  Dioneme  talked  intermittently  in  short  broken 
sentences,  abstracted,  as  if  she  were  murmuring  in  her 
sleep. 

"The  bridge  is  more  over  land  than  water,  yet 
there  seems  to  be  water  everywhere.  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
looking  down  deep  into  some  city  at  the  bottom  of  a 
sea.  How  damp  and  salt  the  air  is,  yet  not  pure,  some- 
how; it  has  a  faint  flavor  of  human  squalor  in  it,  of 
slime  and  mouldy  river-banks.  It  feels  thick  against 
my  face. — Now  we  are  over  the  water  and  it  is  fresher. 
[  140] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

See  the  East  River,  how  thin  it  looks ;  a  Venetian  canal 
on  each  side  of  Blackwells  Island!  And  that  long, 
quivering  line  of  blue  light — what  is  that  ? — I  saw  a 
phosphorescent  marine  creature  like  it  once  in  an 
aquarium. — This  is  no  sleeping  world,  it  crouches, 
watching,  like  an  animal  in  the  dark. — How  long  the 
walk  is!  It  seems  to  lead  to  infinity.  There  are  no 
stars,  Humphrey,  but  what  glorious  beauty.  We  are 
suspended  over  the  heads  of  all  men  like  a  divine 
thought  spanning  chasms.  All  the  power  of  the 
bridge  seems  to  be  in  us,  don't  you  feel  it! — we  are 
iron,  triumphant,  invincible! 

"Now,  I'm  not  going  to  talk  any  more"  she  said 
finally,  "just  walk  on  silently.  I  shall  feel  it  more." 

"Good,"  agreed  Humphrey.  He  was  mentally 
engaged  in  considering  statistics  he  had  read  in  regard 
to  this  bridge.  After  some  time  he  remembered  to 
ask  his  mother  if  she  were  not  tired,  if  she  were  enjoy- 
ing herself,  if  it  was  what  she  had  wanted. 

"  It  is  perfect,"  she  said  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  won- 
derful! It  makes  me  forget  who  I  am  and  what  life 
is.  Now  I  am  just  part  of  the  bridge — between  land 
and  sky,  with  cities  in  each  hand." 

Three  days  after  their  night  walk,  Humphrey  started 
for  Michigan. 

"Take  good  care  of  her,  Parker,"  he  said  to  the 
maid  when  he  bade  his  mother  good-by.  His  mind 


THE   MOON  LADY 

was  almost  at  ease  about  her,  and  on  the  journey  he 
permitted  himself  to  think  entirely  of  his  work  and 
of  Linda.  He  had,  indeed,  a  boyish  vision  of  taking 
her  himself,  on  some  future  day,  to  see  the  medical 
college  in  all  its  completed  architectural  beauty.  In 
his  mind  he  pictured  her  sitting  in  the  empty  place  be- 
side him.  Indeed,  if  airy  imagination  could  take  form, 
many  commonplace  and  seemingly  stolid  young  men 
might  be  seen,  on  their  travels,  in  similar  radiant  com- 
pany. Humphrey  still  knew  nothing  of  Linda's  place 
of  retreat,  but  it  was  a  consolation  to  know  that  his 
rival  was  no  better  informed  than  he.  Jackson  had 
inadvertently  betrayed  as  much  when  the  two  men  met 
one  day  at  the  club.  He  still  felt  that  he  could  afford 
to  wait;  sooner  or  later  Linda  would  come  back  to  him, 
and  of  her  own  free  will.  Since  that  last  talk  with  her, 
on  the  day  after  the  concert,  he  had  had  no  real  doubts. 
Humphrey  was  absent  from  home  for  a  week,  and 
returned  on  a  bleak  day  in  March  when  the  rain  was 
slanting  fiercely  over  the  city,  freezing  as  it  fell.  The 
house,  too,  as  he  entered  it  struck  him  as  being  sin- 
gularly cheerless.  No  fire  burned  on  the  drawing- 
room  hearth,  though  it  was  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  the  flower-vases  were  unfilled.  An  over- 
looked dust-cloth  trailed  forlornly  along  a  chair.  The 
house-maid  snatched  it  up,  and  hastily  concealed  it 
about  her  person. 

[  142] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Isn't  Mrs.  Wylde  at  home?  Doesn't  she  expect 
me?"  asked  Humphrey  puzzled. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  Mrs.  Wylde  had  the  telegram  this 
morning,  but  she's  not  been  quite  well,  Parker  says. 
She  hasn't  been  downstairs  since  yesterday  morning. 
I  think  she's  asleep  now,  sir." 

Humphrey,  filled  with  anxiety,  dashed  upstairs  to 
his  mother's  room.  Parker  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
He  opened  the  bedroom  door  and  saw  that  Dioneme 
was  lying  on  the  couch  by  the  fire.  Near  her,  on  a 
table,  a  single  shaded  light  was  burning.  She  seemed 
asleep,  but  Humphrey  saw  that  it  was  more  stupor  than 
natural  slumber.  He  bent  over  to  examine  her  face; 
it  looked  swollen  and  unnatural,  with  loose,  partly 
open  lips.  Her  beautiful  hair  hung  tangled  about  her 
ears.  She  was  breathing  heavily,  almost  snoring. 
Never  had  Humphrey  seen  her  as  she  was  now,  for  this 
was  complete  downfall  and  overthrow.  It  was  a  noi- 
some caricature  of  Dioneme  which  lay  there,  uncon- 
scious, incapable  of  either  thought  or  speech.  It  was 
as  if  some  gross  and  unclean  spirit  had  entered  her 
body  and  driven  out  its  rightful  owner. 

For  a  moment  Humphrey's  hopes,  his  courage,  even, 
failed  him.  Then  the  pity  of  it  mastered  everything 
else.  His  mother — in  the  grip  of  such  a  horror!  He 
felt  as  he  might  have  done  if  he  had  known  her 
secretly  married  to  a  satyr.  She  must  be  freed  at  no 
matter  what  cost! 

[143] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

He  touched  the  hand  which  hung  down  inertly 
at  her  side,  the  veins  swollen  with  blood.  It  was  a 
thin,  nervous  hand  with  delicately  smooth  and  pointed 
fingers,  the  hand  of  an  artist,  a  dreamer,  one  who 
could  not  fight  the  world  alone.  He  remembered  his 
father's  words :  "  She  was  born  on  a  midsummer  night 
in  an  island  of  the  sea,  and  christened  from  a  book  of 
Herrick's  songs,"  and  a  choking  sensation  made  itself 
felt  in  his  throat.  He  went  out  of  the  room  quietly, 
closing  the  door  after  him.  Then  he  sent  for  Parker 
to  come  to  him  in  his  mother's  sitting-room.  While 
he  waited  for  her  he  strode  up  and  down  restlessly, 
planning  what  he  would  say  and  do.  Clearly,  his 
mother  must  no  longer  be  left  to  herself:  she  must  be 
continually  guarded  and  watched.  She  must  be  con- 
sidered now  as  an  invalid  too  weak  and  inconsequent 
to  know  what  treatment  she  needed. 

And  this  Humphrey  could  not  do  alone,  even  if  he 
gave  all  his  time  to  it.  He  must  have  a  helper,  an  ally, 
some  one  whom  he  could  trust  and  bind  to  his  service. 
Would  Parker  be  sufficient  ?  He  asked  himself  doubt- 
fully, waiting  for  their  approaching  interview  before 
passing  judgment. 

The  woman  came  in  at  last  with  her  usual  quiet 
and  respectful  air,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"I  have  just  seen  Mrs.  Wylde,"  said  Humphrey, 
"  but  I  did  not  wake  her  up." 

"No,  sir?"  replied  Parker  with  a  carefully  non- 
[  144  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

committal  accent.  Humphrey  found  his  position 
more  difficult  even  than  he  had  feared.  But  it  was 
useless  to  pretend  to  any  artifices  of  phrase. 

"  Her  condition  was  a  great  shock  and  a  great  sur- 
prise to  me,"  he  went  on. 

The  maid  made  no  reply,  and  a  sudden  flare  of 
annoyance  blazed  up  in  Humphrey.  There  was 
something  profoundly  irritating  about  this  smooth 
and  self-sufficient  silence.  It  seemed  more  insolent 
than  respectful  in  its  all-knowing  reticence.  He 
wished  that  he  could  suddenly  shatter  Parker's  mask 
of  well-trained  servitude,  and  behold  a  human  coun- 
tenance, responsive  to  his  own.  Then  a  moment's 
reflection  showed  him  he  was  unjust.  The  woman 
was  in  a  trying  situation,  where  discretion  was  all 
that  was  possible  to  her. 

"I  think  we  agreed  once  before,  Parker,  that 
stimulants  were  dangerous  for  my  mother,"  he  said 
finally.  "  Now  the  time  has  come  when  it  is  a  matter 
of  great  importance  that  she  should  not  be  able  to  get 
them." 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  Parker.  Her  clear  but  insig- 
nificant hazel  eyes  met  Humphrey's  for  the  first  time 
in  a  glance  which  seemed  to  promise  co-operation. 
He  noticed  that  the  light  in  which  she  was  standing 
brought  the  wen  on  her  forehead  into  unusual  promi- 
nence. 

[  145] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"She  must  have  been  very  unlike  herself  during 
the  last  few  days,  very  careless  of  consequences?" 
said  Humphrey,  sick  at  heart  for  seeming  to  ques- 
tion. 

"It  was  Ellen,"  remarked  the  maid.  "  Mrs.  Wylde 
asked  her  for  the  champagne  and  she  brought  it.  I 
tried  to  argue  with  Mrs.  Wylde,  but  it  was  no  use,  she 
was  like  an  ill  person,  some  one  in  a  fever." 

"It  is  an  illness,"  said  Humphrey. 

"Yes,  I  know,  sir." 

Humphrey  reflected  for  a  moment.  "Does  Ellen 
have  charge  of  the  keys  of  the  wine-cellar?"  he  asked 
finally. 

"Yes,  sir,  but  there's  very  little  wine  kept  in  the 
house,  you  know,  on  account  of  there  being  so  little 
room." 

Humphrey  said  that  thereafter  he  should  keep  the 
keys  himself,  and  that  when  Ellen  needed  wine  for  the 
table  she  must  come  to  him. 

"  You  are  fond  of  my  mother,  I  think,  Parker  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  always  tell  every  one  she  is  a  very  nice 
lady,"  replied  the  maid.  Her  accent  of  conscientious 
recommendation  would  have  amused  Humphrey  at 
another  time. 

"  She's  been  kind  to  you  ?" 

"Very,  sir." 

[  146] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"  You  have  a  chance  now,  Parker,  to  be  of  the  great- 
est help  to  Mrs.  Wylde  and  to  me.  You  know  what 
her  condition  is.  She  is  growing  gradually  worse, 
and  will  never  be  well  again  until  she  gives  up  alcoholic 
stimulants.  She  is  too  weak,  just  now,  to  do  this  of 
her  own  will.  I  know  she  wishes  it.  She  must  be 
helped  by  keeping  all  these  things  absolutely  away 
from  her.  Can  you  do  it?" 

Parker  remarked  in  a  level,  unemotional  voice  that 
it  was  a  hard  task,  but  Humphrey  thought  he  saw 
a  look  of  sympathy  glimmer  for  a  moment  on  her 
face. 

"  I  know  it  is  hard,"  he  said,  "  but  I  shall  be  here  as 
much  as  possible  to  help  you.  Between  us  we  must 
cure  her!"  His  faith  and  enthusiasm  should  have 
been  contagious,  but  Parker  only  sighed. 

"  I'm  sure  I  hope  so,  sir,"  she  said.  "  'Tis  a  terrible 
thing!  I  never  thought  I  should  have  a  thing  like 
it  come  on  me,  and  such  a  nice  lady  too ! " 

Humphrey  considered  another  aspect  of  the  situ- 
ation. Perhaps  it  had  already  been  in  the  maid's 
mind. 

"Of  course  I  realize  I  am  asking  for  much  more 
than  your  usual  services,  and  you  shall  be  paid  accord- 
ingly," he  remarked. 

Parker   replied   deferentially   that   she   knew   Mr. 
Humphrey  would  do  what  was  right. 
[147] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"I  shall  give  you  double  your  present  wages,"  he 
said,  after  some  consideration.  "  Of  course,  Mrs. 
Wylde  will  not  know  of  this." 

"  Of  course  not,  sir.     Thank  you,  sir." 

"  It  will  be  as  if  I  had  engaged  a  nurse,  in  addition 
to  a  maid.  Invalids  are  often  obliged  to  have  the 
attendance  of  a  nurse  against  their  will." 

Parker  did  not  apparently  grasp  the  necessity  of 
this  presentation  of  the  facts — a  presentation  by  which 
Humphrey  strove  to  silence  inward  protest — but  ac- 
quiesced in  it.  There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Is  that  all,  sir?"  asked  the  maid,  at  last. 

It  seemed  to  Humphrey  that  there  was  a  great  deal 
more,  but  he  could  not  have  explained  what  it  was. 
He  had  anticipated  something  vaguely  different  from 
his  talk  with  Parker,  yet  he  felt  that  there  was  nothing 
of  which  he  could  precisely  complain.  The  woman 
had  been  respectful,  understanding,  willing  to  do  her 
best  to  help  him.  Perhaps  in  his  own  disappointment 
and  trouble  he  would  have  liked  a  warmer  expression 
of  sympathy,  even  if  it  had  been  less  full  of  respect. 
A  little  human  friendliness,  something  less  chilly  than 
the  carefully  repressed  condolence  of  an  inferior.  If 
she  could  have  forgotten  for  a  moment  that  she  was 
an  inferior  it  would  have  been  grateful  to  him.  If  she 
could  have  been  just  a  kind,  middle-aged  woman,  not 
a  lady's  maid!  He  said  to  himself,  though,  that  he 
[148] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

had  expected  the  impossible.  Parker  was  faithful  and 
devoted  to  his  mother.  She  had  been  with  them  for 
five  years,  through  all  the  trial  of  his  father's  illness  and 
death,  she  would  not  fail  them  now,  in  any  of  the  things 
which  were  essential. 


[149] 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  •  J  UT   you're    mad ! "   exclaimed    Norris    Peters, 

1  3  "you're  raving!  I  never  heard  such  nonsense 
in  my  life!" 

"Nonsense  or  not — it's  got  to  be,"  said  Humphrey 
firmly. 

The  two  men  had  been  lunching  together  at  Del- 
monico's,  and  were  lingering  over  their  coffee  and 
cigarettes. 

"  Give  up  the  work  in  Michigan — give  up  the  office! 
— why,  it's  your  life,  man,  you're  giving  up!" 

"Life's  a  long  affair,"  said  Humphrey.  His  face 
wore  a  somewhat  stolid  expression.  He  stared  with 
the  fixedness  of  the  unperceiving  gaze  at  an  old  man 
sitting  at  a  table  near  them. 

Peters  was  silent  for  a  moment,  unable  to  find  words 
to  express  his  annoyance  and  disapproval.  Finally 
he  burst  forth  again: 

"So  you've  lost  your  ambition  and  got  too  lazy 
to  work!  That's  the  way  it  looks,  at  all  events! — 
I'm  joking  of  course — don't  mind  it! — What's  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all,  Humphrey?  You're  not  going  to 
make  a  mystery  of  it  to  me — are  you  ?  " 
[  150] 


"Certainly  not — the  facts  are  what  I've  told  you. 
My  mother  is  not  well — I  want  to  be  more  with  her. 
We  may  travel.  As  you  know,  it  isn't  really  necessary 
for  me  to  make  money.  Why  shouldn't  I  do  as  I 
like?" 

"  Keep  your  reasons  to  yourself  if  you  like — "  said 
Peters,  "  but  don't  talk  like  that,  at  least  to  me.  I'm 
not  a  fool.  What  does  your  mother  say  to  all 
this?" 

Humphrey  hesitated — finesse  was  not  strongly  in 
his  character.  In  diplomacy  he  would,  in  all  proba- 
bility, have  followed  the  school  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 

"She  doesn't  know  what  my  plan  is  as  yet,"  he  said 
finally.  "She'll  approve  when  she  knows  it.  Keas- 
bey's  been  anxious  to  come  in  with  us  for  some  time," 
he  added.  "Now's  your  chance  to  get  him." 

"Damn  Keasbey,"  observed  Peters. 

"  Don't  think  I'm  not  sorry  to  leave  you,  old  Norry," 
Humphrey  said. 

They  smoked  in  silence  for  a  short  time,  watched 
by  an  indifferent  waiter,  who  was  hanging  about,  with 
dog-like  patience,  waiting  for  his  tip.  He  observed  to 
himself  that  the  young  gentlemen  did  not  seem  very 
friendly,  not  divining  that  it  was  against  the  demands 
of  friendship  they  were  both  struggling. 

"Well,"  said  Peters,  at  length,  "it's  quarter  to  three 
— no  use  to  talk  this  over  any  more,  I  suppose?" 
[151  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"No  use,"  said  Humphrey,  "there'll  be  a  lot  of  ar- 
rangements to  make,  but  that  will  all  come  along  in 
time." 

"  We'd  better  be  off,  then."  Peters  put  a  half-dol- 
lar into  the  discreetly  extended  palm  and  went  with 
Humphrey  into  the  hall  where  they  struggled  into 
their  coats.  "Going  back  to  the  office?"  asked 
Humphrey. 

"No — I've  got  to  see  a  man  about  that  electrical 
contract — and  one  or  two  other  things  besides." 

Peters  watched  Humphrey  disappear  through  the 
swinging  doors,  and  then  went  to  the  telephone  booth, 
where  he  looked  up  a  name  and  address. 

"  Hello— give  me  1195— is  that  1195  ?  Dr.  Mackle- 
vaine  ? — Ask  him  if  he  can  see  Norris  Peters  some  time 
this  afternoon.  Yes — Hello? — At  once,  you  say? — 
Yes,  in  five  minutes.  I'll  be  there." 

Peters  came  out  of  the  booth  with  the  calm  expres- 
sion of  one  who  has  decided  on  a  proper  course  of 
action  and  taken  the  first  step.  A  taxi-cab  rushed 
him  to  the  office  of  Dr.  Macklevaine,  and  he  found 
that  robust  gentleman  alone  in  a  working  cabinet  which 
was  decorated  with  scientific  instruments  and  charts, 
and  smelt  of  iodoform. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  in  his 
professional  manner.  From  the  young  man's  expres- 
sion he  thought  he  foresaw  some  emergency  operation. 
[  152] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"It's  not  for  me — it's  Humphrey  Wylde,"  said 
Peters. 

"Is  Humphrey  ill?" 

"No — not  in  body,"  replied  Peters  impatiently. 
He  longed  to  get  to  the  vital  thing  he  had  to  speak  of 
at  once,  without  beating  about  the  bush. 

"Look  here,  doctor,"  he  said,  "you  and  I  don't 
know  each  other  very  well,  but  we're  both  friends  of 
the  Wyldes." 

At  this  preamble  a  guarded  expression  crept  into 
the  doctor's  eyes,  his  professional  geniality  of  encour- 
agement vanished ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  hastily  put  on  a 
disguise  of  dark  glasses. 

But  Peters,  if  he  noticed,  was  not  disconcerted. 

"  Now  as  far  as  the  world  goes  the  Wyldes'  secrets 
are  my  secrets,"  he  continued,  "just  as  they  are  yours 
— but  friends,  such  as  we  are,  are  not  blind." 

"I  don't  understand  you — "  said  the  doctor,  seem- 
ing to  bristle,  like  the  old  dog  he  was. 

"I'll  speak  more  plainly,  then.  Humphrey  is  about 
to  give  up  his  work  as  an  architect — his  whole  career 
and  future  in  fact — so  as  to  be  constantly  with  his 
mother,  and  protect  her  from  the  suspicions  of  the 
world.  I  don't  deny  that  it's  a  fine  quixotic  thing  to 
do,  but,  all  the  same,  Humphrey  mustn't  be  sacri- 
ficed." 

"  Sacrificed  to  what  ?  "  inquired  the  doctor.  There 
[  153  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

was  a  gathering  and  portentous  wrath  hovering  about 
him  which  should  have  been  a  warning,  but  the  younger 
man  went  incautiously  on. 

"To  the  vice  of  a  woman  whose  life  is  more  than 
half  over,  while  his  is  just  beginning,"  he  said 
boldly. 

The  doctor  rose  from  his  seat,  and  turned  on  his 
visitor  like  a  great  bull  teased  into  combat.  "  Young 
man,"  he  said,  "  my  house  is  not  a  place  where  a  lady 
can  be  lightly  spoken  of."  His  face  was  congested 
with  anger. 

In  the  soul  of  each  individual  there  is  one  spot  that 
is  holy  but  vulnerable.  It  will  be  defended  to  the  ut- 
termost, and  woe  to  the  assailant.  Whether  deliber- 
ate or  accidental,  his  will  be  a  hazardous  invasion. 

Peters  saw  that  he  had  touched  this  spot  in  Dr. 
Macklevaine  and  instinctively  drew  back. 

" — I — it  was  not  my  intention — "  he  stammered. 
A  little  reflection  gave  him  back  his  courage.  "I  in- 
sult no  one,  sir — not  even  in  my  thoughts.  There 
are  failings  which  are  infirmities;  one  thinks  of  them 
only  with  pity.  But  can't  these  failings  be  guarded 
— cured  perhaps — without  destroying  a  life  like  Hum- 
phrey's?" 

Old  Macklevaine  controlled  himself  with  a  giant 
effort,  and  brought  himself  to  speak  with  calm  civility 
to  this  venturesome  intruder. 
[154] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Even  presuming  that  there  was  a  situation  which 
called  for  self-sacrifice,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  a  virtue 
which  destroys  a  life — rather,  it  builds  up." 

"  Character — yes — but  what  of  Humphrey's  career  ?" 

"It  will  be  Mrs.  Wylde  who  will  have  made  the 
name  of  her  son  and  his  father  remembered."  The 
doctor's  lips  twisted  painfully  as  he  spoke  of  Dioneme 
— but  there  was  a  finality  in  what  he  said.  Peters  felt 
that  against  this  sore  and  stubborn  passion  there  was 
no  attack  possible.  Dr.  Macklevaine  would  look  ap- 
provingly on  Humphrey's  ruin  if  by  it  his  mother 
could  be  saved  or  even  helped.  It  was  a  new  dis- 
closure to  Peters.  He  had  always  put  down  the  doc- 
tor's devotion  to  Dioneme  as  merely  the  chivalrous 
sentiment  which  is  the  child  and  sometimes  life-long 
survivor  of  youthful  ardor.  Now  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  had  come  to  the  house,  the  arguments  by 
which  he  hoped  to  find  aid  in  preventing  Humphrey 
from  throwing  away  his  future,  slipped  from  him. 
He  tried  to  repeat  with  more  effect  what  he  had  already 
said  about  misguided  self-sacrifice,  and  ventured  to 
suggest  that  each  individual  had  a  right  to  his  own 
freedom,  to  his  own  self-expression,  but,  before  Dr. 
Macklevaine's  scornful  silence,  his  words  sounded 
feeble  and  unconvincing. 

Finally  he  rose  to  go. 

"You  believe  that  I  came  as  a  friend  not  only  of 
[155] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Humphrey's,  but  of  his  mother's  ? "  he  said,  as  he 
stood  at  the  door. 

"  Your  motives  were,  I  am  sure,  most  praiseworthy," 
replied  the  doctor.  But  Peters  felt  when  he  went  down 
the  steps  that,  if  his  late  host  had  followed  his  desires, 
he  would  have  given  him  an  impetus  to  departure  as 
vulgar  as  it  was  vehement. 

It  was  without  any  further  resistance  on  the  part 
of  his  friend  that  Humphrey  finally  retired  from  busi- 
ness— temporarily,  he  put  it  to  himself,  though  with  a 
doubt  in  his  mind.  He  had  fancied  that  an  explana- 
tion with  his  mother  would  be  difficult,  but  Dioneme, 
when  he  spoke  to  her,  was  abstracted,  musing  on  other 
things,  and  said  that  he  must  do  what  he  thought  best. 
Probably  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  be  by  himself, 
when  he  returned  to  work  later,  than  to  be  one  of  a 
firm.  She  took  it  for  granted  that  Humphrey  wanted 
to  travel,  to  study  the  art  of  other  civilizations,  but 
begged  him,  a  little  wistfully,  not  to  leave  her  just  yet. 
And  so  things  drifted. 

He  often  wondered  how  much  she  concealed  from 
him  of  her  own  knowledge  of  her  condition.  It  was 
a  question  they  never  spoke  of  openly.  If  she  strug- 
gled against  her  weakness,  she  gave  no  sign;  if  she 
fell — and  this  fear  was  always  uppermost  in  Hum- 
phrey's mind,  she  contrived  to  conceal  it.  She  made 
no  comment  to  him  on  the  changes  he  had  effected  in 
[  156  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

the  ordering  of  the  household;  overlooked,  if  she  even 
suspected  it,  his  secret  understanding  with  Parker. 
Once  the  maid  had  informed  Humphrey  of  certain 
confiscations  she  had  made,  parcels  which  had  been 
brought  into  the  house  stealthily — but  though  he  per- 
ceived the  necessity  of  knowing  these  things  he  always 
shrank  distastefully  from  any  of  the  lady's-maid's 
communications.  She,  perhaps,  felt  this  repugnance 
and,  taking  it  personally,  secretly  resented  it. 

It  was  while  Humphrey  was  making  his  final  ar- 
rangements for  dissolving  the  partnership  with  Peters 
that  Linda  returned  to  town.  She  had  been  away  six 
weeks.  It  was  now  early  spring,  but  still  cold,  with 
occasional  flurries  of  snow,  as  the  winter  that  year 
lingered  long.  During  her  absence  Dioneme's  book 
had  appeared,  and,  by  its  perusal,  her  infatuation  for 
the  author  had  been  fed  and  maintained.  Constant 
personal  association  with  Dioneme  had  dimmed,  in  a 
degree,  the  sense  of  her  genius;  the  novel  again  pro- 
claimed it.  Linda  thought  that  in  her  renewed  ab- 
sorption by  the  mother  her  temporary  madness  in 
regard  to  the  son  had  been  completely  cured.  She 
looked  forward  with  perfect  calmness  to  her  next  meet- 
ing with  Humphrey.  They  would  be  friends,  she  told 
herself,  with  the  eternal  confidence  of  young  women 
in  that  eloquent  phrase.  She  informed  Dioneme  of 
her  return  in  a  brief  note,  and  asked  when  she  could 
[  157] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

see  her.  The  only  reply  she  had  was  a  message  from 
Emma  Cooper,  over  the  telephone,  saying  that  Mrs. 
Wylde  was  not  well,  but  hoped  to  be  able  to  receive 
Miss  Arnold  in  a  very  few  days.  At  least  Humphrey 
would  come  to  see  her  immediately,  Linda  thought. 
He  was,  of  course,  still  the  eager  lover,  even  if  he  had 
been  angry  for  a  while  at  her  flight  and  her  silence. 
His  mother  would  have  let  him  know  of  her  return. 
She  looked  forward  to  telling  him  calmly  what  their 
future  relations  were  to  be — it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
let  him  see  how  much  she  really  liked  and  esteemed 
him,  now  that  she  no  longer  feared,  on  her  own 
part,  either  his  supplications  or  any  of  those  tu- 
multuous silences  which  had  so  confounded  her  in 
the  past. 

But  Humphrey  did  not  come,  and  she  was  forced 
into  the  reluctant  belief  that  he  had  been  angrier  at 
her  running  away  from  him  than  she  had  thought 
possible.  Altogether  there  was  much  that  was  un- 
satisfactory about  her  home-coming.  She  had  so 
looked  forward  to  taking  the  threads  of  events  in  her 
own  hands,  had  felt  herself  so  strong  and  competent! 
Now  things  were  in  a  mysterious  tangle — and  there 
was  no  one  to  unravel  them.  If  she  could  only  see 
Dioneme!  But  still  no  summons  came,  and  her  pride 
would  not  permit  her  to  write  a  second  time  asking  for 
an  interview.  She  had  to  be  contented  with  frequent 
[  158  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

inquiries  sent  through  servants  over  the  telephone — 
to  which  the  answer  was  always  that  Mrs.  Wylde  was 
a  little  better — nothing  more. 

When  Walter  Jackson  was  shown  in  one  afternoon 
at  tea  time  soon  after  her  return,  she  received  him  with 
pleasure,  not  only  for  his  own  sake,  but  because  she 
thought  he  might  bring  her  news  of  the  Wyldes. 

Though  she  did  not  know  it,  this  was  the  express 
purpose  of  Walter's  visit.  At  first,  however,  this  matter 
of  prime  importance  to  both  of  them  was  diplomati- 
cally held  in  reserve. 

"No  need  to  ask  how  you  are,"  said  Jackson,  as  he 
took  the  cup  of  tea  she  had  prepared  for  him,  "you 
show  you've  had  six  weeks  of  open  air  and  early  hours." 

"The  country  was  delicious,"  replied  Linda.  "I 
skated  when  the  roads  were  too  hard  to  ride." 

"  Any  people  staying  in  the  house  ?  "  asked  the  young 
man,  on  the  lookout  for  rivals. 

"No — my  little  cousin  had  the  whooping-cough,  so 
they  couldn't  have  visitors.  I  wasn't  sorry.  I  like 
being  alone." 

This  Jackson  put  down  as  a  girlish  vagary  which 
time  would  overcome.  No  well-balanced  human  being 
liked  being  alone — especially  in  the  country. 

"What  has  been  going  on  in  New  York?"  asked 
Linda. 

"  Nothing  much — no  end  of  people  have  gone  South. 
[  159] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

There  was  the  Hollister's  Ball,  but  it  was  dull — not 
enough  men — and  the  O'Gradys  had  the  Swedish 
dancers — paid  a  fortune  for  one  night — every  one  went 
out  of  curiosity,  even  old  Miss  Anne  Sturdevant  who 
always  swore  she  wouldn't  set  foot  inside  the  O'Grady's 
house." 

Jackson  talked  on  easily,  giving  her  the  record  of 
the  little  surface  happenings  which  had  broken  the 
monotony  of  their  circle.  A  student  of  life  would  have 
read  profounder  meanings  into  these  events,  but  in 
Walter  Jackson  thought  had  few  reflexes.  This  was 
one  of  the  reasons  why  he  filled  so  competently  and 
aggreeably  the  place  in  society  where  chance  and  his 
own  exertions  had  located  him. 

Linda  was  not  unheedful  of  the  mild  gossip — it  is 
against  nature  not  to  listen  when  we  hear  what  our 
friends  and  acquaintances  have  been  doing — but  the 
dissatisfaction  of  which  she  had  been  aware  ever  since 
her  return  increased.  In  her  mind  she  pronounced 
an  arraignment  against  the  nothingness  of  New  York 
society.  Would  Walter  tell  her  anything  about  the 
Wyldes  without  being  asked,  or  must  she,  in  despera- 
tion, venture  a  question  ?  This  last  was  spared  her,  as 
Jackson  was  even  more  anxious  than  she  to  concern 
himself  with  Humphrey  and  his  mother. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  young  Wylde's  last  move  ?  " 
he  asked  abruptly.  He  had  hoped  to  take  her  by  sur- 
[  160  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

prise  and  when  he  saw  her  expression  change  felt  that 
he  had  done  so.  She  knew  nothing  he  felt  sure. 

"You  forget  I've  been  away,"  said  Linda. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  might  have  heard  by  letter! — 
Well — he's  given  up  his  profession,  retired  from  work 
altogether.  It's  what  the  men  who  knew  him  in  Paris 
always  predicted — /  never  believed  it — took  me  quite 
off  my  feet  when  I  heard  it." 

Linda's  apparent  lack  of  interest  was  unnatural, 
and  even  Jackson  was  only  partially  deceived  by  it. 

"Strange  you  hadn't  heard!"  he  remarked,  eyeing 
her  closely. 

"Of  course  there's  some  reason  for  it,"  she  said; 
"what  does  he  say?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him,  myself — but  I  hear  he  doesn't 
say  anything.  After  all — if  it  conies  to  that,  why  need 
a  man  work  if  there's  no  need  for  it?  Mrs.  Wylde 
makes  money  enough  for  two  and  there's  the  father's 
fortune  beside.  He  wasn't  rich,  old  Wylde,  but  he 
was  no  pauper!" 

Linda  tried  to  force  herself  into  a  realization  of  how 
contemptible  Humphrey  had  shown  himself  to  be, 
how  he  had  justified  her  undefined  suspicions  of  him, 
but  succeeded  only  in  feeling  that  she  had  never  liked 
Walter  Jackson  so  little. 

"Perhaps  he  wants  to  take  care  of  his  mother,  to 
be  with  her  more,"  she  suggested,  leaping  at  a  half 
[161] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

truth  with  feminine  divination.     "You  know,  she  is 
not  well." 

"  Men  don't  give  up  their  professions  to  take  care  of 
women,"  replied  Jackson,  with  undeniable  reason — 
"but  it  shows  how  kind-hearted  you  are  to  try  and 
find  an  excuse  for  him.  Other  people  aren't  so  chari- 
table. Every  one's  down  on  him — too  much  down  on 
him,  from  my  point  of  view.  But  they'll  forget  it  in  a 
week — what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

Linda's  mind  was  in  a  distressing  confusion.  She 
was  vexed  with  Walter  that  he  had  repeated  such  a 
tale  about  Humphrey;  vexed  that  he  should  try  to  de- 
fend him  with  such  an  unrighteous  argument  as  that 
there  was  no  need  of  a  man's  working  if  he  could  be 
supported  otherwise.  She  longed  to  be  able  to  cast  out 
Humphrey  utterly,  and  at  the  same  time  every  instinct 
in  her  rushed  to  his  defence  against  those  who  would 
themselves  cast  him  out. 

Now  it  seemed  to  her  imperative  that  she  should  see 
him — and  at  once.  But  he  would  not  come  and  she 
dared  not  write  to  him.  They  had  parted  almost  as 
lovers.  She  had  fled  from  herself  as  much  as  from 
him.  A  summons  from  her  now  would  mean  only  one 
thing  to  him;  that  was,  no  doubt,  one  reason  why  he 
was  waiting.  He  left  the  decision  to  her.  Probably 
he  had  taken  her  flight  as  a  mere  bit  of  girl's  caprice, 
and,  if  he  was  angry,  was  also  smiling  in  his  sleeve. 
[  162] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"It's  not  by  any  means  the  last  of  Humphrey.  He's 
a  hard  man  to  down,"  said  Jackson  aloud,  in  startling 
parallel  with  her  thoughts. 

Linda  wrenched  herself  out  of  abstraction. 

"  No — I  dare  say  not,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  have  a 
little  more  tea?" 

Jackson  had  come  to  the  house  that  afternoon  with 
some  idea  of  advancing  his  own  suit  by  other  than  in- 
direct methods,  but  he  finally  decided  that  it  was  not 
yet  the  time  He  drank  his  second  cup  of  tea,  which, 
being  prepared  without  attention  or  interest  on  the  part 
of  the  maker,  was  strong,  bitter,  and  nearly  cold.  Then 
he  took  his  departure. 

Linda  sat  idly  by  the  tea-table  for  some  time  after- 
ward. Life  she  felt  was  not  only  difficult  but  distaste- 
ful. Her  Irish  terrier  climbed  up  and  laid  his  head 
against  her  arm.  On  his  ugly  bearded  face  was  a 
look  of  age,  wisdom,  and  intense  devotion.  But  for 
once  this  appeal  left  Linda  indifferent. 

"Go  and  lie  down,  Paddy,"  she  said  coldly.  So 
another  honest  heart  felt  the  ache  of  a  puzzled  love! 


[  163] 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  a  windy  day  in  early  spring;  stiff  breezes 
came  in  gusts  and  swept  the  dust  and  dried  manure 
of  the  streets  into  little  whirling  eddies;  odd  scraps  of 
paper  skimmed  along  the  sidewalks  and  the  women's 
skirts  flapped  behind  them  as  they  walked  tilted  to 
meet  the  rushing  air. 

Linda  came  out  of  the  house  with  her  dog  and 
turned  into  the  park.  There  was  beauty  and  the 
promise  of  early  spring.  Surrounded  by  the  grim, 
compressing  city  this  bit  of  nature  was  like  some  fresh, 
exquisite  body  squeezed  in  a  corset. 

Linda  walked  briskly,  the  dog  ahead  of  her  tugging 
on  his  leash.  On  the  benches  tramps,  nurse-maids  with 
their  charges,  and  robust  matrons  from  Second  Avenue 
sunned  themselves  and  read  the  morning  American. 
A  group  of  children  on  roller-skates  streamed  by  her 
with  a  noise  like  a  cataract.  She  turned  into  a  nar- 
rower path  which  led  across  a  meadow.  There  it  was 
quiet — almost  like  the  country.  An  old  German  was 
feeding  two  gray  squirrels,  who  sat  demurely  on  their 
haunches,  cracking  peanuts  with  their  sharp  little  teeth, 
their  furry  tails  stiffly  upheld  like  battle  standards  at 
[  164] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

rest.  Paddy  strained  at  his  leash,  but  they  looked  at 
him  indifferently  with  their  bright,  roving  eyes,  know- 
ing no  evil,  protected  by  the  laws  of  the  city. 

"New  York's  one  sentimentality,"  thought  Linda. 
She  moved  aside  to  let  a  wobbly  baby,  strayed  too  far 
from  its  nurse,  pass  her  in  safety.  Somehow  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  park  was  less  peaceful  and  soothing 
than  she  had  hoped.  It  was  just  then  that  she  per- 
ceived Humphrey.  He  was  coming  toward  her  from 
the  west  side  of  the  park.  She  imagined  that  there 
was  an  air  of  unhappy  leisure  about  him,  that  he  was 
there,  most  perceptibly,  because  he  had  nothing  else 
to  do.  This  conviction  hardened  her  heart,  which  had 
stirred  a  little  at  sight  of  him. 

He  must  have  noticed  her  from  a  long  distance,  for 
he  showed  no  surprise  as  he  came  up  to  her.  Any 
other  emotion  he  may  have  felt  was  carefully  concealed. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  the  sun  glistened  on  his  sleek, 
black  hair.  His  blue,  sailor's  eyes  met  Linda's  with- 
out a  shadow  of  self-consciousness.  Again  that  sick- 
ening conviction  that  it  was  he  who  commanded  the 
situation,  that  helplessness  she  always  felt  when  she 
was  with  him,  swept  over  her.  But  he  must  explain 
himself — must  prove  that  he  was  not  unworthy! 
This  done — she  was,  she  all  at  once  discovered,  ready 
to  cast  all  her  magnificent  resolutions  to  the  wind,  to 
deny  her  own  calm  and  the  cure  wrought  by  absence, 
[  165  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

to  yield  entirely  to  the  emotion  that  shook  her  at  the 
renewed  sight  of  him.  But  on  the  necessity  of  ex- 
planation she  held  firm.  "Where  there  is  no  respect 
there  can  be  no  love,"  was  still  her  shibboleth,  though 
every  slender  thread  of  her  being  denied  it. 

"So  you  are  back  in  town!"  said  Humphrey. 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"I  suspected." 

"And  you  didn't  come  to  see  me!"  said  Linda  with 
uneasy  and  ineffectual  coquetry. 

Humphrey  made  no  direct  answer. 

"Shall  we  sit  down?"  he  asked,  indicating  a  bench 
somewhat  removed  from  the  vicinity  of  the  old  Ger- 
man. Linda  assented,  and  tied  her  dog  to  the  iron 
arm  of  the  bench.  They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
The  softness  of  the  spring  around  them  seemed  to  woo 
them  to  gentleness  and  peace,  but  Linda  stood  fast  in 
her  inward  determination  to  love  only  where  she  could 
respect. 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  are  walking  in  the 
park  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning?"  she  asked 
uncompromisingly. 

Humphrey  was  studying  her  soft,  flushed  cheeks,  the 
slant  of  her  eyebrows,  and  the  curve  of  her  young 
mouth.  How  often  he  had  seen  that  little  face  before 
him  in  the  dark  of  sleepless  nights!  But  it  was  more 
beautiful  even  than  he  remembered  it — more  dear! 
[  166] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"I  asked  you  why  you  were  in  the  park  at  eleven 
o'clock,"  repeated  Linda.  She  met  his  eyes  for  an 
instant,  grew  tremulous,  and  looked  away. 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  used  to  be  at  work." 

"I  have  given  up  my  office,"  said  Humphrey 
shortly. 

Linda  waited  for  an  explanation,  but  none  came. 
His  ignoring  of  his  own  offence  made  her  angry.  Was 
it  possible  he  thought,  as  Walter  had  suggested,  that 
there  was  no  necessity  for  a  man  to  work  if  he  had 
other  means  of  support  ?  Did  he  really  intend  to  live 
in  idleness  on  the  bounty  of  his  mother  ? 

"  But  you  mean  to  work  at  something,  don't  you  ?  " 
she  asked  insistently.  Around  them  some  sparrows 
twittered  gayly  as  if  of  the  futility  of  hair-splitting 
morality  and  ethical  argument.  The  warm  air,  full 
of  the  pleasant  scent  of  brown  mould  and  of  the  first 
grass  blades  which  were  beginning  to  tint  the  wintry 
turf  with  green,  blew  in  their  faces.  Love!  love! — 
breathed  the  delicious  breath  of  coming  spring. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  mean  to  do?"  said 
Humphrey,  leaning  toward  her.  "Can't  you  trust 
me?" 

"Oh — I  want  to  trust  you!"  exclaimed  Linda;  "it 
is  what  I  want  most  of  all."     Now  that  she  had  made 
this  admission  she  perceived  its  truth. 
[167] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"There  is  only  one  thing  that  matters — everything 
else  is  a  part  of  that."  What  this  was  Humphrey 
made  known  to  her  wordlessly.  Unrebuked  he  laid 
his  hand  on  hers. 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  me  some  day,  Linda  ?  "  he 
said  suddenly.  The  girl  turned  away  from  him  though 
she  left  her  hand  where  it  was. 

"Oh — I  can't  believe  in  you!  I  can't  believe  in 
you!"  she  moaned. 

"Won't  you  trust  your  heart?" 

"I  must  be  sure  the  man  I  love  is  absolutely  all  I 
want  him  to  be — before  I  think  of — before  I — "  she 
faltered  at  the  word  "marry."  It  was  unpronounce- 
able. "  Oh — can't  you  tell  me  why  you  give  up  your 
work!" 

"Some  day  you  will  know  everything  about  me. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  that  day,  dear,"  said  Humphrey. 

"  But  I  want  to  know  now! "  Linda  cried.  He  felt  a 
flash  of  something  like  anger  at  this  childish  obstinacy, 
this  insistence  on  the  mere  ethics  of  their  relationship, 
but  it  vanished  in  an  instant.  Linda  was  so  ignorant 
of  life  and  of  her  own  heart! 

"Where  there  is  no  respect  there  can  be  no  love," 
she  repeated  now.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  pro- 
nounced this  watchword  aloud  and  it  gave  her  new 
courage. 

Humphrey  sighed.     She  had  drawn  her  hand  away 
[  168] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

from  him,  but  she  looked  him  directly  in  the  eyes  this 
time,  with  something  so  innocent,  so  appealing  in  her 
gaze  that  his  heart  stirred  with  a  kind  of  pity.  How 
could  he  teach  her  that  love  was  enough — or  would  it 
change  her  too  much  if  she  knew  ? 

"I  can't  argue  with  you,  Linda,"  he  said.  "How 
can  we  sit  here  together  and  argue  like  two  professors ! 
Do  you  love  me  or  not  ? " 

"You  talk  as  if  love  were  everything!"  said  Linda, 
endowed,  of  a  sudden,  with  the  dignity  of  a  real  con- 
viction, her  very  platitudes  breathing  eloquence,  her 
eyes  flashing.  "  It  may  be  the  most  powerful — but  it's 
not  everything.  There  is  much  more  that  we  have  to 
consider  in  life — whether  we  want  to  or  not — honor, 
our  duty  to  other  people — things  like  that. 

"  It  may  be,  as  you  seem  to  think,  that  love  can  sweep 
everything  else  aside,  and  be  its  own  justification,  but 
the  other  things  will  not  let  themselves  be  forgotten." 

A  change  came  over  Humphrey's  face  as  she  talked, 
it  grew  graver,  his  expression  showed  that  her  words 
h  d  started  him  on  some  track  of  thought  in  which  she 
had  little  or  no  part. 

When  she  had  finished  it  half  alarmed  her  to  see 
how  much  her  arguments  had  apparently  moved  him, 
how  carefully  he  could  suppress  in  a  moment  all  signs 
of  his  late  tenderness.  His  manner  had  now  only  what 
seemed  a  studied  consideration.  While  she  had  been 
[  169] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

doubting,  hesitating  about  drawing  nearer  to  him,  he, 
it  seemed,  had  removed  himself  irrevocably  from  her. 
It  was  another  mystery.  She  waited  for  him  to  speak, 
trembling  a  little. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  that  I  can't  explain  to  you," 
he  said  finally.  He  had  risen  now  and  was  standing 
in  front  of  her,  looking  down  into  her  face.  "  A  great 
deal  you  will  never  understand  perhaps.  When  I  saw 
you  again  to-day  I  thought  that  you  loved  me,  and  I 
believed — still  believe — that  love  is  enough! 

"If  it  is  the  real  thing  it  is  inspired — even  though 
unconsciously  often  by  what  you  call  'respect' — not 
at  war  with  it.  I  felt  that  this  love  between  us  could 
make  everything  else  that  seemed  difficult  quite  plain 
and  easy.  I  wouldn't  have  hesitated  to  have  taken  you 
to  share  even  trouble,  responsibility  with  me,  if  I  had 
been  sure  of  your  love. 

"  But  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  you  have  made  me  see 
things  differently.  You  don't  believe  in  me,  you 
can't  love  me  without  believing  in  me,  you  say.  I 
doubt  if  you  could  ever  love  me  at  all! — And,  uncon- 
sciously, you've  pointed  out  other  things.  I  don't 
need  to  speak  of  them.  They  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong  in  thinking  of  marriage 
at  all — or  rather  perhaps  I  didn't  think  of  it  enough. 

"  It  is  clear  to  me  now,  at  any  rate,  that  I  must  give 
up  such  thoughts." 

[  170] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

Then  his  voice  changed,  and  Linda  divined  in  him 
a  last  uncontrollable  flaring  up  of  hope. 

"There  is  nothing  else  you  want  to  say  to  me?" 
he  asked  finally. 

Something  in  Linda's  soul  at  that  moment  mourned 
for  him  with  tears  and  cries.  If  he  had  given  her  any 
hint  that  he  was  in  trouble,  that  his  life  was  difficult, 
that  he  needed  her  help,  her  petty  doubts  of  herself 
and  of  him  might  have  vanished ;  for,  in  spite  of  her 
twenty  years,  her  inexperience  and  the  narrow  en- 
vironment in  which  she  had  always  lived,  Linda  was 
one  of  that  divine  class  of  women  whose  nature  it  is  to 
give.  But  Humphrey  showed  no  sign  of  needing  any 
one's  pity — rather  he  seemed  more  than  usually  master 
of  himself  and  assured. 

"No — there  is  nothing  more,"  she  said,  in  response 
to  his  question.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  added 
something,  even  now,  about  their  being  friends,  but 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  articulate  these  convention- 
alities. 

"Good-by,  then!"  said  Humphrey. 

"Good-by,"  she  replied,  and  he  was  gone. 

Linda  sat  quite  still  on  the  bench,  numb  and  be- 
wildered, trying  to  think  how  it  had  all  happened — 
and  so  quickly! 

The  old  German  was  still  feeding  the  squirrels  at 
a  little  distance,  her  terrier  lay  rolled  up  in  a  shaggy 
[171] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

red  ball  at  her  feet — but  Humphrey  had  gone.  Out  of 
her  life  ? 

She  supplied  a  violent  negation  to  this  query  from 
her  inmost  necessities.  No,  they  must  still  be  friends! 
She  felt,  unconscious  of  her  own  absurdities,  that  she 
could  trust  him  enough,  at  least,  for  that  relationship. 

Meanwhile  Humphrey  had  swung  himself  into  a 
Fifth  Avenue  motor  bus  and  was  being  borne,  heavily 
and  noisily,  a  solitary  passenger,  toward  his  home. 
The  strain  of  the  past  half  hour  had  been  so  great  that 
he  threw  it  off  not  simply  by  a  mental  effort  but  through 
the  inevitable  reaction  of  nature  itself.  It  was  not 
impossible  to  occupy  himself  with  trivialities  as  a  man 
may  who  issues  from  the  consulting-room  of  a  dis- 
pensary where  he  has  heard  himself  doomed,  but  at 
the  same  time  the  unacknowledged  pain  persisted — 
a  reminder  that  all  was  not  well  with  him. 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  the  smoke  from  it  floated,  un- 
lawfully, through  the  open  windows  of  the  omnibus. 
In  the  park  he  noticed  the  willow-trees  were  chang- 
ing from  the  golden  brown  of  lacquer  to  a  delicate 
green.  Workmen  were  busy  with  the  new  wing  of  the 
Metropolitan  Museum.  He  wondered  idly  when  it 
would  be  finished. 

A  camel,  led  by  an  Arab  in  native  dress,  padded  its 
exotic  way  along  the  asphalt,  advertising  on  its  saddle- 
cloth a  newly  opened  cafe.  With  wide,  melancholy 
[  172] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

eyes,  accustomed  once  to  the  limitless  sands  of  Sahara, 
it  gazed  ahead  at  the  Plaza  Hotel,  looming  up  like  an 
inconceivably  vast  white  porcelain  German  stove. 

At  Fifty-ninth  Street  a  little  milliner's  apprentice 
carrying  a  brightly  flowered  paper  hat-box  got  into 
the  bus.  Humphrey  threw  his  cigarette  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  the  girl  looked  at  him  shyly,  adjusting  the 
cheap  gilt  side-combs  she  wore  in  her  yellow  hair. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  about  sixteen,  with  short  skirts 
which  showed  her  clumsy  patched  boots. 

The  omnibus  swung  into  the  congestion  of  lower 
Fifth  Avenue  and  their  progress  was  slower.  Com- 
merce and  fashion  joined  here  to  form  a  turbulent  pro- 
cession in  which  their  separate  guilds,  rivals,  or  allies, 
were  all  audaciously  represented. 

Here  was  life,  clangorous,  ever-changing  yet  inex- 
tinguishable— Humphrey,  beholding,  drew  from  it  in 
some  strange  way  the  serenity  which  many  men  find 
by  gazing  at  the  stars.  His  own  trouble  was  lost 
temporarily  in  this  vast  tumult.  It  cured  like  the  in- 
oculation of  serum  extracted  from  the  body  of  a  creat- 
ure which  has  suffered  from  the  disease  similar  to  one's 
own. 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  Dr.  Macklevaine, 

who  had  come  to  lunch.     Dioneme  was  entertaining 

him  by  the  window  in  the  drawing-room.     She  had 

been  ill  with  a  severe  cold  and  had  come  downstairs  to 

[173] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

lunch  for  the  first  time  in  a  week.  "  I'm  much  better 
— in  all  kinds  of  ways — and  it's  mostly  due  to  Hum- 
phrey," she  said  to  the  doctor,  when  the  former  came 
in.  "  You  know,  he  stays  at  home  with  me  now.  All 
I  needed  was  some  one  to  take  care  of  me ! " 

"He's  done  quite  right!"  said  the  doctor  grufHy; 
and  each  of  the  three  wondered  how  much  the  others 
divined  of  what  was  really  meant.  They  were  like 
people  in  three  separate  small  boats  who  join  hands  for 
a  moment  under  the  smiling  pretence  of  being  at  one. 
Of  them  all  Dioneme  was  the  most  truly  insouciant. 
Humphrey,  as  he  looked  at  her,  was  amazed,  as  always, 
at  her  unfeigned  forgetfulness  of  realities,  her  absorp- 
tion in  the  non-existent. 

"  How  is  the  book  coming  on  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Mackle- 
vaine,  intent  on  pleasing. 

"Very  well,  I  believe,"  replied  Dioneme  indifferent- 
ly. "It  doesn't  interest  me,  now  that  it  is  published, 
any  more  than  the  menu  of  a  dinner  I've  already 
eaten." 

"  Thinking  of  a  new  one,  are  you  ? " 

"Yes — I  want  to  write  a  story  about  a  miner — but 
I  know  nothing  about  mines!  I  shall  have  to  read  a 
great  many  books,  which  will  be  hard  work.  The 
trouble  with  me  is  I  have  mind,  but  no  memory." 

"You  have  the  essential,"  said  the  doctor  pon- 
derously. 

[174] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  Perhaps — but  memory  is  the  valet  of  mind ;  it  goes 
behind  and  carries  the  paraphernalia  with  which  mind 
bedecks  itself  in  order  to  make  a  brilliant  appearance  in 
the  world."  Humphrey  took  no  part  in  the  ensuing 
discussion.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  at  that  moment  of 
any  special  significance.  If  his  mother  could  ignore 
realities,  he,  at  any  rate,  must  gather  them  up  and  see 
that  they  were  given  their  proper  place. 

After  luncheon,  when  Dioneme  had  left  them  for  a 
few  moments,  Dr.  Macklevaine  spoke  to  Humphrey 
in  a  tone  which  showed  that  he,  too,  dealt  conscien- 
tiously as  well  as  by  instinct  with  realities. 

"Your  mother's  looks  don't  please  me,"  he  said, 
"and  her  cough  lasts  too  long — I  should  like  to  have 
Giles  see  her." 

"Giles?" 

Humphrey  looked  up  sharply.  This  selection  of  a 
specialist  alarmed  him.  Dr.  Macklevaine  met  him 
with  a  steady  look  in  the  eyes.  Their  intelligences 
communicated  wordlessly.  Finally  Humphrey  said 
aloud,  groping,  as  he  was,  among  uncertainties: 

"You've  known  my  mother  for  a  long  time — but 
there  is  a  great  deal — perhaps " 

The  doctor  interrupted  him,  fingering  attentively  a 

small  spoon  which  lay  before  him,  in  order  not  to  again 

meet  Humphrey's  gaze.    "There  is  nothing  you  can 

tell  me  about  your  mother  which  I  do  not  know,"  he 

[175] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

said.  "I  know  her  life,  her  temptations,  her — "  he 
hesitated  a  little — "  her  failings.  It  is  because  of  this 
knowledge  that  I  am  anxious  about  her  now.  She  is 
not  in  a  condition  to  resist  disease." 

The  import  of  the  doctor's  words  seemed  to  par- 
tially evade  Humphrey,  though  the  sense  of  misfortune 
which  had  been  upon  him  grew  heavier.  There  was 
a  moment  of  instinctive  and  personal  revolt.  It  was 
more  than  he  could  bear. 

"Poor  mother!"  he  said — then — "this  is  not  the 
first  knock  I've  had  to-day."  In  his  very  attempt  at 
courage  there  may  have  been  an  unconscious  wish  for 
sympathy. 

But  Dr.  Macklevaine  was  not  much  interested  in 
Humphrey  except  as  the  son  might  minister  to  the 
needs  of  the  mother. 

"  Ah  ?  "  he  said  vaguely.  "  Things  often  come  like 
that.  We  must  face  them." 

He  sighed,  thinking  of  Dioneme. 

"It's  time  for  me  to  be  off,"  he  added  in  a  moment. 
"I  have  a  hernia  operation  in  the  hospital  at  three." 

"It's  a  good  thing  to  have  work,"  said  Humphrey 
mechanically. 


[176] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"T'M  anxious  about  Mrs.  Wylde,  sir.  Do  you  know 
JL  where  she  is?"  Humphrey  had  just  come  in,  a 
little  after  twelve  at  night,  to  find  Parker  waiting  for 
him  in  the  hall,  with  something  stealthy  added  to  the 
usual  discretion  of  her  attitude. 

"In  bed  and  asleep,  I  thought.  What  do  you 
mean ! " 

Presentiment  leaped  at  him  like  the  flame  from  a 
suddenly  lighted  match. 

"  Mrs.  Wylde  had  some  dinner  on  a  tray  upstairs," 
said  Parker.  "  She  told  me  that  she  was  going  to  read 
for  a  while  and  that  I  was  not  to  disturb  her,  but  come 
when  she  rang.  I  waited  until  after  eleven — nearly 
half  past,  then  I  thought  she  might  have  fallen  asleep, 
so  I  went  to  the  door  and  listened.  There  wasn't  a 
sound.  I  knocked,  but  got  no  answer,  so  I  ventured 
to  open  the  door,  sir.  Mrs.  Wylde  was  not  in  the  sit- 
ting-room, nor  in  her  bedroom.  I  saw  the  tea  gown 
she  had  been  wearing  lying  on  a  chair,  and  the  hat^she 
puts  on  mornings  and  one  of  her  tailor  suits  were  miss- 
ing from  the  wardrobe.  Then  I  knew  she  must  have 
[  177] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

gone  out.  I  ran  down  and  asked  Ellen  and  she  said 
she  thought  she  heard  a  door  closed  about  ten  o'clock, 
but  persuaded  herself  she  just  imagined  it."  Parker 
paused  and  looked  at  Humphrey  with  a  sharp  query 
in  her  eyes,  though  her  face  was  otherwise  pas- 
sive. 

"  Did  Mrs.  Wylde  eat  much  dinner  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,  she  hardly  touched  it.  She  asked  me  to 
get  her  some  champagne,  sir,  but  I  persuaded  her  that 
it  was  impossible." 

Parker's  eyes  were  cast  down.  Her  little  speech  was 
like  a  message  delivered  in  cipher,  as  it  were,  to  be  read 
only  by  one  who  held  the  key,  and  of  more  sinister 
meaning  than  the  words  themselves  made  apparent. 

Humphrey  felt  convinced  now  of  the  maid's  loyalty 
and  discretion. 

"  You've  no  idea,  whatever,  where  my  mother  might 
have  gone?" 

"No,  sir,  it  is  so  long  since  she  has  been  out  of  an 
evening."  Parker  reflected  for  a  moment.  "There's 
a  cab-stand  just  around  the  corner,"  she  suggested. 
"She  might  have  taken  a  hansom  there  in  case  she 
wanted  one." 

Humphrey  had  his  hand  on  the  door,  ready  to  go 

out  again.     "  Send  the  other  servants  to  bed  and  wait 

for  Mrs.  Wylde  yourself,"  he  said,  as  he  opened  it. 

As  yet  he  had  no  plan  for  himself.     He  must  take  time 

[  178  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

to  think  one  out.  To  call  in  the  aid  of  an  outsider  was 
not  to  be  thought  of — at  least  until  it  became  impera- 
tive. 

Parker  had  spoken  of  a  cab-stand,  the  one  on 

Street,  no  doubt.  He  turned  in  that  direction,  unable 
at  the  moment  to  think  of  anything  better.  In  front 
of  the  Club  there  were  only  two  cabs,  four  wheelers, 
the  drivers  asleep  on  their  respective  boxes.  Humphrey 
woke  up  the  nearest  and  asked  him  if  he  could  give 
any  information  about  a  lady  who  had  taken  a  cab 
there  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"  What  kind  of  a  lady  ?  "  asked  the  man.  He  was 
fat  and  unmannerly,  with  a  bloated  red  face,  and  ad- 
dressed Humphrey  from  his  lofty  seat  with  what  seemed 
disdain. 

"A  tall,  thin  lady,  very  pale,  with  reddish  hair  and 
dark  eyes,"  said  Humphrey,  marvelling  painfully  that 
he  should  be  describing  his  mother  to  an  insolent,  Irish 
cab-driver.  The  man  settled  down  to  his  slumbers 
again  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"Feller  ahead  had  a  party  like  that,  about  ten 
o'clock,"  he  let  fall  grudgingly.  "Ye  kin  ask  him 
about  her." 

The  man  on  the  next  cab  had  a  thin,  smoothly 
shaven  face,  of  the  English  type,  lined  and  pinched  with 
hard  experience,  yet  with  a  kind  of  protesting  and  sar- 
donic humor  in  it.  Yes,  he  remembered  his  fare,  of 
[  179] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

course,  why  shouldn't  he — he  had  had  only  two  that 

evening.     He  had  taken  her  to  a  hotel  on Street, 

but  she  hadn't  stayed  a  minute,  hurried  out  as  if  she 
were  angry  and  told  him  to  drive  about  a  little — any- 
where— she  wanted  the  air.  After  they  had  been 
driving  for  about  fifteen  minutes  she  put  her  head  out 
of  the  window  and  told  him  to  stop.  It  was  in  front 
of  the  "  Windermere."  She  paid  him  his  fare  and  he 
saw  her  go  into  the  restaurant.  The  cabman  had  the 
indifferent  manner  of  one  who  can  be  surprised  by 
nothing;  but  his  regard,  as  he  bent  it  on  Humphrey, 
had  a  certain  penetrating  quality.  Of  this  Humphrey 
saw  nothing.  He  felt  grateful  for  the  unconcern  of  the 
man's  words.  It  made  things,  if  possible,  less  over- 
whelming to  face.  For  an  instant  he  glanced  up  vague- 
ly at  the  huge  office-building,  overtopping  them,  surg- 
ing in  the  sky  like  a  stupendous  wave  which  threatened 
to  break  on  their  heads.  The  sparsely  scattered  elec- 
tric lights  in  front  of  the  club  flared  into  the  gaping 
blackness  of  an  empty  lot  opposite,  which  was  piled 
with  the  formless,  uncouth  debris  of  a  recently  de- 
molished house. 

"  Drive  to  the  Windermere — and  be  quick  about  it," 
he  said,  and  jumped  in  the  cab.  It  had  the  sour, 
musty  smell  of  all  such  vehicles,  the  cocoa  mat  under 
his  feet  felt  damp  and  slimy,  the  windows  were  shut 
and  spattered  with  mud.  They  started  forward  with 
[  180  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

a  lurch,  bumping  over  a  deep  hole  in  the  asphalt  pave- 
ment. 

"  So  she  came ! "  said  Humphrey  to  himself  and  the 
thought  repeated  itself  mechanically  over  and  over  in 
his  brain  until  he  felt  himself  actually  in  his  mother's 
place  and  began  to  almost  sickeningly  understand 
some  of  her  misery,  the  intense,  irresistible,  bodily  crav- 
ing, the  wavering  will,  the  horror  of  life  which  engulfed 
her  and  would  not  let  her  go,  nerves,  imagination,  tor- 
tured until  they  shrieked  for  any  way  of  escape,  even 
the  most  degraded. 

In  the  distance  he  saw  the  monstrous  flare  of  Broad- 
way ablaze  with  electric  signs  which  looked  like  fire- 
works fixed  immutably  in  the  sky. 

The  side  street  led,  tunnel-like  and  dark,  toward 
all  this  brilliance.  Just  before  they  reached  it  the  cab 
stopped.  "  Windermere  "  Humphrey  read  in  letters  of 
light.  He  jumped  out. 

"Shall  I  wait?"  asked  the  driver. 

"Yes — wait,"  said  Humphrey  over  his  shoulder. 
He  pushed  open  the  glass  doors,  covered  with  curtains 
of  dark  green  silk,  and  went  in. 

A  drunken  man,  well-dressed,  elderly,  what  re- 
mained of  a  gentleman,  rolled  in  beside  him,  carrying 
some  bills  tightly  clenched  in  one  hand  and  a  red  rose 
in  the  other. 

A  boy  took  Humphrey's  hat  and  coat  and  disap- 
[181] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

peared  with  them  up  a  mysterious  stairway  which  led 
from  the  outer  hall,  and  he  was  then  shown  into  a  large 
square  room  on  the  left  of  the  entrance — a  room  like  a 
roofed-over  patio,  with  an  upper  balcony,  decked  with 
the  puckered-up  flags  of  all  nations  and  with  enormous, 
many-colored  Japanese  lanterns.  The  walls  were  all 
of  looking-glass  and  covered  with  lattice-work  over 
which  trailed  dusty  imitation  wistaria  vines.  Under 
his  feet  the  dirt  on  the  floor  scraped  like  sand. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  riot  of  colors,  of  the  over- 
powering smell  of  food  and  wine  and  strong  cigars,  and 
a  din  of  coarse  voices  and  laughter.  Between  the  lat- 
tice-work the  mirrors  reflected  this  scene  in  an  inter- 
minable series  of  gaudy  squares,  which  seemed  to  fit 
into  each  other  like  boxes,  or  be  laid  in  quaint,  mosaic- 
like  patterns. 

Here,  where  any  woman  might  enter  alone  and  un- 
questioned, Humphrey  was  to  look  for  his  mother. 
He  began  to  pick  his  way  slowly  among  the  crowded 
tables.  Many  bold  eyes,  mocking,  leering,  or  indif- 
ferent, looked  up  at  him  from  under  rakish  hat  brims. 
He  came  across  the  old  man  who  had  entered  the 
restaurant  with  him  lolling  at  a  small  table  and 
contemplating  his  rose  vacantly  with  a  maudlin 
smile. 

"Woman  is  a  flower — lasts  but  an  hour — "  he  was 
mumbling  to  himself.  The  musicians  played  with  Ital- 
[  182  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

ian  fervor  the  intermezzo  from  "  Cavalleria,"  and  fol- 
lowed it  by  "The  Rosary."  For  the  moment  senti- 
mentality was  uppermost.  A  girl  with  her  feathered 
hat  at  a  grotesque  angle  on  the  back  of  her  head  be- 
gan to  sob  violently.  Then  a  new  party  came  in — 
prosperous,  underbred  Jews.  They  were  greeted  with 
shouts  and  good-natured  jests  from  their  apparently 
numerous  friends,  and  sat  down  noisily,  near  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room. 

A  low-browed  waiter  with  a  filthy  mop  began  to 
move  nonchalantly  up  and  down,  as  intent  merely  on 
his  task  of  cleaning  up  the  floor  as  if  it  had  been  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  he  alone  in  a  deserted 
room. 

Humphrey,  half  desperate,  reflected  that  if  his 
mother  were  really  here  she  would  be  in  some  quiet 
corner,  if  there  were  such  a  corner.  He  dreaded  ask- 
ing questions  of  an  employee — he  must  find  her  alone. 
Once  more  he  passed  the  table  of  the  old  man  with  the 
rose,  who  was  still  crooning  to  himself: 

"Woman  is  a  flower — lasts  but  an  hour." 

Very  soon  Humphrey  saw  Dioneme.  She  was  not 
sitting  in  a  corner,  but  at  a  small  table  on  the  side  of 
the  room,  half  concealed  by  the  musicians,  staring  in 
front  of  her  in  a  kind  of  stupor. 

A  black  chiffon  veil  covered  her  low  hat  and  her  hair, 
and  framed  her  delicately  cut  face.  She  looked  very 
[  183] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

ill  and  wan,  half  unconscious,  and  her  whole  body  was 
relaxed  as  if  with  mortal  fatigue. 

Her  distinction,  even  so,  was  painful.  A  group  of 
men  at  an  adjacent  table  were  watching  her  curiously 
and  whispering  among  themselves.  Humphrey  took 
the  seat  opposite  her  as  if  he  had  been  expected  and 
was  merely  keeping  an  appointment. 

When  she  saw  him  she  looked  bewildered  and 
alarmed  for  a  moment,  then  a  flush  mounted  to  her 
forehead  and  faded,  leaving  her  whiter  than  before. 
She  made  no  effort  to  speak. 

Humphrey  took  a  block  of  white  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  pushed  it,  with  a  pencil,  across  the  table  to 
her. 

"Well,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "have  you  got  enough 
material  ?  Do  you  want  to  make  any  notes  ?  " 

The  men  at  the  next  table  still  stared,  but  with  less 
curiosity. 

"  Writing  up  the  Windermere  for  the  papers ! "  said 
one. 

"Had  her  drink  too  soon,"  replied  another  with  a 
chuckle.  "  She'll  say  now  there  are  two  Windermeres 
chasing  each  other  round  the  block." 

"Something  wrong  there,"  said  the  third  man,  shak- 
ing his  head,  as  he  regarded  Humphrey  giving  an  order 
for  two  large  cups  of  black  coffee. 

Later  the  attention  of  these  critics  was  distracted  by 
[  184  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

a  noisy  quarrel  between  a  young  mulatto  girl  and  her 
escort — and  the  subsequent  intervention  of  the  man- 
ager of  the  Windermere. 

Dioneme  and  Humphrey  exchanged  no  words.  She 
sipped  a  little  of  the  black  coffee,  her  hand  trembling, 
and  then  played  aimlessly  with  the  pencil  and  the  block 
of  paper.  She  looked  physically  on  the  verge  of  faint- 
ing, but  a  vague  and  rather  sweet  smile  hovered  on  her 
lips — as  if  she  brooded  over  some  pleasant  thought. 
She  seemed  now  to  have  quite  forgotten  her  surround- 
ings and  even  Humphrey. 

He  wondered  if  she  would  be  able  to  walk  unsup- 
ported out  of  the  room. 

"Drink  a  little  more  coffee,"  he  said  to  her  in- 
sistently, and  she  obeyed  him  under  the  spell  of  sug- 
gestion. 

Now  the  beneficent  power  of  the  actual  and  the  con- 
crete asserted  itself  over  Humphrey.  He  ceased  to 
vibrate  under  the  horror  of  the  situation,  was  no  longer 
even  conscious  of  why  he  and  his  mother  were  there. 

His  mind,  with  nothing  more  in  it,  as  it  were,  than 
affectionate  solicitude  for  a  convalescent,  fixed  itself 
on  the  possibility  of  her  walking  the  length  of  the  room. 

Finally  he  decided  that  the  moment  had  come.  He 
paid  the  waiter  and  helped  his  mother  out  of  her 
chair.  She  tottered  very  slightly  as  she  rose  to  her 
feet. 

[185] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Take  my  arm,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "the  air  in 
this  place  is  sickening,"  and  so,  he  supporting  her, 
they  left  the  restaurant,  few  noticing  their  depart- 
ure. 

While  he  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk  giving  the 
direction  to  the  cab  driver,  a  couple  passed,  the  hard 
light  from  the  electric  lamp  illuminating  their  faces — 
a  slight  girl  with  straggling  golden  hair  and  a  cheap, 
showy  dress  and,  to  Humphrey's  momentary  dismay, 
Walter  Jackson.  Had  Jackson  noticed  him?  No — 
mercifully, — he  was  intent  on  his  companion.  They 
drifted  past  like  phantoms,  part  of  the  fitfully  seen, 
tragically  unimportant  life  of  midnight.  He  gave 
them  no  more  thought. 

Would  his  mother  try  to  talk  to  him  on  the  way 
home,  attempt  some  incoherent  explanation  ?  He 
asked  himself  the  question  half  fearfully — but  she  re- 
mained inert,  insensible  almost.  He  could  feel  her 
weight  against  his  shoulder,  heavy  and  inelastic. 

At  least  his  dreadful  search  was  over.  God! — the 
relief  of  being  out  of  that  restaurant! 

Parker  would  be  waiting  for  them.  He  was  glad 
now  that  he  had  Parker  for  an  ally. 

When  the  cab  stopped  in  front  of  their  house  he 

could  rouse  his  mother  but  slightly  and  that  with  great 

effort,  and  he  was  obliged  to  almost  carry  her  up  the 

old-fashioned,  brown-stone  steps.     The  door  opened 

[  186] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

before  he  had  found  his  key.  Parker  must  have  been 
in  the  hall  and  heard  the  carriage.  They  exchanged 
a  glance  bare  of  pretence,  and  together  got  Dioneme 
upstairs  to  her  own  room. 


[  187] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WALTER  JACKSON,  emboldened  by  the  ad- 
verse criticism  of  Humphrey  which  was  gen- 
erally expressed  by  his  acquaintances,  now  discarded 
his  former  methods  and  came  out  openly  as  his  de- 
tractor. The  facts,  which  seemed  undeniably  to  sup- 
port his  assertions  were  presented  to  Linda  on  various 
occasions  separately  or  in  sum,  not  brutally,  but  with 
an  insinuating  persuasiveness.  Humphrey  lived  on 
his  mother,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it,  was  too  indolent 
and  inefficient  to  do  anything  for  himself  and,  with 
petty  suspicion,  tried  to  keep  from  Dioneme's  presence 
any  one  whom  he  thought  might  obtain  too  great 
an  influence  over  her.  While  these  statements  could 
never  be  denied  they  never,  on  the  other  hand,  quite 
destroyed  Linda's  instinctive  sympathy  with  Hum- 
phrey, that  cry  toward  him  which  seemed  to  come  at 
once  from  body  and  from  soul.  The  world,  or  that 
part  of  it  represented  by  her  own  immediate  surround- 
ings, grew  oddly  meaningless  and  unsatisfactory. 

Even  when  she  was  pleasantly  busy  with  familiar 
things  a  feeling  of  unreality  often  took  possession  of 
her;  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  moving  through  some 
[  188] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

stiff,  formal  dance,  her  very  garments  like  a  mas- 
querade garb,  the  smile  on  her  lips  set  and  as  if  as- 
sumed for  a  part.  And  all  the  time  she  longed  to  live, 
which,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  meant  that  she 
longed  to  love.  Humphrey  had  awakened  the  sex 
in  her,  but  though  she  was  no  longer  entirely  a  child, 
she  was  not  quite  a  woman,  for  a  woman  would  have 
almost  certainly  divined  that  her  lover  had  some  secret 
care,  suffered  under  some  not  dishonorable  obligation. 

The  door  which  had  partly  opened  for  Linda,  giv- 
ing glimpses  of  confusing  happiness,  had  been  closed 
again  by  her  own  impulsion. 

Her  mind  was  full  of  regret  for  what  she  had  never 
had,  of  sadness  and  revolt  and  sweet  uncertain  tender- 
ness. 

People  said  that  she  had  never  been  so  pretty;  ad- 
mirers of  course  hovered  around,  tantalized  and  al- 
lured, but  she  classed  them  together,  a  mere  group, 
and  failed  to  single  out  individuals.  Of  them  all  Jack- 
son was  the  only  one  who  came  near  to  her — the  old 
friend  whom  she  had  known  so  long,  on  whom  she 
could  depend,  who  walked  and  rode  with  her,  visited 
the  same  houses,  knew  the  same  people.  And  they 
were  so  often  seen  together  that  their  names  were 
coupled  openly — though  of  this  she  suspected  nothing. 

It  was  spring  now,  the  season  was  over,  every  day 
the  ocean  liners  carried  hundreds  away  from  New 
[189] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

York,  and  country  houses  were  being  opened  in  Long 
Island,  Tuxedo  and  Westchester. 

Unrest  was  in  the  air,  a  disturbing  fever.  At  night 
Linda  could  not  sleep  because  of  April — April  throb- 
bing in  the  dark  outside.  She  seemed  to  see,  even  in 
her  curtained  room,  the  budding  trees  of  the  park  toss- 
ing lightly  against  a  starlit  sky  and  the  thought  of 
the  spring,  warm,  perfumed,  all-conquering,  haunted 
her,  kept  her  witch-bound,  dreaming  though  awake. 

So,  for  days  at  a  time,  she  seemed  to  herself  to  have 
two  selves:  one  lightly  gay,  self-satisfied  enough,  the 
other  like  an  ill  and  peevish  child  crying  unceasingly 
for  some  toy  denied  to  it. 

Jackson  dropped  in  at  tea  time  one  unusually  warm 
afternoon.  He  found  Linda  alone.  The  curtains 
had  been  drawn  to  keep  out  the  too  searching  sun,  but 
through  the  windows  came  a  constant  whirring  noise 
from  the  motor-busses  stationed  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  the  shouts  of  some  Italian  children  who,  living  in 
Avenue  A,  found  Fifth  Avenue  a  convenient  play- 
ground. The  drawing-room  was  full  of  potted  hya- 
cinths and  narcissi,  and  in  the  warmth  and  perfume 
one  was  conscious  of  the  fine  dust  which  came  in  with 
the  air  from  outside,  and  of  a  general  oppressive  intru- 
sion on  the  part  of  the  city.  Was  it  the  moment  for 
Jackson  to  have  chosen  for  a  declaration  of  his  hopes 
and  desires  ?  Who  can  tell ! 
[190] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Linda,  though  she  listened  gently,  not  too  surprised, 
refused  to  give  any  definite  answer,  put  him  off,  was 
irritating,  coquettish,  even,  he  felt,  insincere.  But  on 
the  other  hand  anything  was  better  than  a  direct  re- 
fusal. He  was  confident  of  winning  her  in  the  end. 

After  this  scene  Linda  felt  mysteriously  the  need  of 
justifying  herself  in  her  treatment  of  Humphrey.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  she  had  never  sought  to  find  out 
indirectly,  but  from  Dioneme  herself,  the  truth  about 
him.  While  the  mother  would  never  accuse  her  son, 
or  perhaps  consciously  admit  even  to  herself  his  short- 
comings, she  would  certainly  betray  the  reality  una- 
wares. 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  Linda  and  her  friend 
had  met,  not  indeed  since  the  finality  of  the  former's 
talk  with  Humphrey  in  the  park.  At  first  a  certain 
shyness  or  pride  had  kept  Linda  away,  afterward  she 
had  made  several  attempts  to  go  to  Dioneme,  but  had 
always  been  put  off  on  a  plea  of  absorption  in  a  piece 
of  literary  work,  absence  from  town,  or  ill  health.  The 
base  thought  that  it  was  Humphrey  who  had,  by  way 
of  punishment  for  her  treatment  of  him,  prevented  her 
from  seeing  his  mother,  several  times  entered  Linda's 
brain,  a  mean  and  unwelcome  thing,  but  not  easily 
ejected.  As  soon  as  she  had  decided  to  make  another 
effort  toward  a  meeting  with  Dioneme  she  went  to  the 
telephone  and  called  up  the  Madison  Avenue  house. 
[191] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

When  Humphrey's  voice  answered  her  she  was  ex- 
traordinarily taken  aback,  hesitated  for  a  word,  much 
to  her  annoyance,  but  finally  managed  to  say  that  she 
would  like  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Wylde. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  voice  again. 

It  surprised  her  even  over  the  telephone  with  its 
power  to  induce  in  her  a  nervous  tremor. 

"  Linda  Arnold,"  she  replied.  There  was  a  rather 
long  pause,  then  Humphrey  spoke  again. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  my  mother  is  not  well 
and  can't  come  to  the  telephone  just  now.  Can  I  give 
her  a  message?" 

That  was  all — no  acknowledgment  of  Linda  herself 
as  anything  but  an  abstract  personality. 

"  Will  you  ask  your  mother  when  she  can  see  me — 
just  we  two,  alone,  for  a  little  talk  ?  "  said  Linda,  striv- 
ing to  make  her  voice  as  unconcerned  as  Humphrey's 
seemed  to  be.  A  girlish  terror  seized  her.  What  if 
Humphrey  should  think  she  was  making  some  advance 
toward  a  new  understanding  with  himself  ?  She  grew 
hot  at  the  thought  and  felt  like  precipitately  hanging 
up  the  telephone  receiver,  but  the  wretched  thing  held 
her  like  some  soulless  machine  which  she  had  set  in 
motion  and  could  not  stop. 

"  Will  you  hold  the  wire,  or  shall  I  call  you  up  later 
and  let  you  know  what  she  says  ?  "  came  Humphrey's 
voice.  Its  accent  of  remote  courtesy  angered  Linda 
[  192] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

unreasonably,  but  what  else  could  she  wish?  Again 
she  regretted  her  impulse  to  telephone  but  her  resolve 
to  see  Dioneme  remained  with  her. 

"I'll  hold  the  wire,"  she  said. 

During  the  minutes  which  elapsed  before  Hum- 
phrey's return,  as  she  sat  holding  the  receiver,  she  had 
an  odd  impression  that  unexpressed  and  incoherent 
communications  were  passing  along  the  line  between 
her  house  and  his.  And  these  intelligences,  presum- 
ably of  the  utmost  importance,  she  was  incapable  of 
grasping.  It  was  as  if  she  sat,  impotently,  with  a 
thread  of  destiny  in  her  hand. 

Presently  she  heard  his  voice  again  and  with  the 
resumption  of  material  intercourse  her  fancy  of  the 
psychic  became  immediately  grotesque. 

"My  mother  wants  very  much  to  see  you,"  said 
Humphrey,  "  but  the  doctor  has  told  her  she  must  have 
a  few  days  of  absolute  rest,  a  week  perhaps.  She  will 
write  to  you  at  the  end  of  the  time  and  name  a  day  for 
you  to  come." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Linda  and  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver without  further  formality. 

"She  will  never  write!"  she  said  to  herself  with 
vexed  conviction.  But  nevertheless  she  waited  a  week 
with  a  certain  amount  of  hope.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  she  was  assured  that  Humphrey  had  determined 
to  keep  her  away  from  his  mother  at  all  costs  and  no 
[  193] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

inquiry  into  his  possible  motives  could  produce  for  her 
mental  consideration  anything  but  the  unworthy. 
But  now  her  spirit  of  opposition  was  really  aroused. 
She  would  see  Dioneme!  Therefore  one  afternoon 
she  drove  to  the  well-known  house  on  Madison  Avenue, 
mounted  the  steps  with  an  amusing  air  of  dogged  re- 
solve, and  rang  the  bell. 

Chance  was  on  her  side,  for,  as  the  door  was  opened 
by  the  maid,  Linda  caught  sight  of  Emma  Cooper 
standing  in  the  hall,  cloaked  and  hatted,  apparently 
just  on  the  point  of  taking  her  departure. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Emma!"  said  Linda,  not  giving 
the  maid  an  opportunity  to  deliver  the  formal  message 
that  her  mistress  was  not  at  home.  "How  is  Mrs. 
Wylde?  And  could  you  arrange  for  me  to  see  her  a 
moment  ?  " 

Thus  appealed  to  as  an  authority  and  a  power 
Emma  was  easily  influenced. 

"Why,  go  right  in  the  parlor,  Miss  Arnold,"  she 
said  genially.  "  It's  been  a  long  time  since  you  were 
here,  seems  to  me.  She's  been  real  ill — had  a  relapse 
after  getting  over  the  grippe — but  I  believe  it  will  do 
her  good  to  see  you.  Doctors  don't  know  anything, 
anyway!"  Having  wiped  out  all  the  pretensions  of 
medical  science  in  this  swift  and  ruthless  way,  Emma 
went  upstairs  to  interview  her  employer.  She  came 
back  with  a  shade  less  enthusiasm  in  her  manner. 
[  194  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"You're  to  go  right  up,"  she  said,  "but  I  guess  you 
better  not  be  there  too  long,  she  seems  real  weak  and 
nervous  to-day." 

"I'll  only  stay  a  little  while,"  said  Linda,  but  lin- 
gered before  she  turned  upstairs. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  "  she  asked  Miss  Cooper, 
pleasantly.  "I've  heard  nothing  about  you  for  so 
long." 

The  typist  reddened  a  little  with  embarrassment. 

"  Well,"  she  replied  hesitatingly,  "  things  have  been 
better  than  now,  but  I  was  never  one  to  complain." 

Linda  looked  at  her  more  attentively  and  perceived 
that  her  hat  and  boots  were  shabby  and  that  she  was 
wearing  cotton  gloves.  She  smiled  at  Miss  Cooper 
with  gentle  friendliness. 

"  You  mustn't  forget  me,"  she  said,  "  if  you  ever  need 
any  help.  Perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  hear  of  some 
work  for  you.  Do  you  promise  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  promise,"  Miss  Cooper  answered,  as  if  the 
words  were  wrenched  from  her  with  difficulty.  She  in- 
finitely disliked  receiving  favors,  but  her  admiration  for 
Linda  was  great  and  throttled  her  pride.  Miss  Arnold 
was  not  so  much  beauty  and  romance  nor  even  kind- 
ness to  her  perhaps  as  she  was  part  of  that  Olympian 
world  of  fashion,  merely  to  read  of  which  was  a 
debauch  of  the  imagination.  She  longed  now  to  tell 
Miss  Arnold  that  she  had  seen  in  the  paper  that 
[  195  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

morning  a  description  of  the  dress  the  former  had 
worn  at  a  wedding,  but  her  courage  failed  her,  and  the 
moment  was  soon  over,  for  Linda,  with  her  pretty  smile, 
turned  inexorably  toward  the  stairs. 

Now  that  she  was  really  on  the  point  of  seeing 
Dioneme  again,  her  pulses  began  to  beat  a  little  faster 
and  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  suspense  and  doubt 
in  her  anticipation  of  the  meeting.  Weeks  had  gone 
by  since  she  had  last  been  with  Dioneme  and  in  those 
weeks  she  felt,  complacently,  that  she  had  grown  older, 
more  perceptive  and  experienced.  Would  her  friend 
seem  the  same  to  her  ?  A  first  glimpse  reassured  her 
of  her  own  fidelity  of  impression,  for  Dioneme,  look- 
ing up  at  her  from  a  low  chair  with  her  whimsical  and 
evasive  smile,  sent  out  the  old  swift  message  of  charm 
and  power. 

"Linda!  Linda!  Linda!"  she  cried.  "Your  name 
has  rung  in  my  head  so  often,  like  a  little  silver  bell, 
and  here  you  are  again  at  last!" 

"I  have  tried  to  come  ever  so  many  times,"  said  the 
girl,  "but  you  always  put  me  off." 

"Ah,  that  was  Humphrey — Humphrey  with  the 
doctor  to  back  him  up.  They  keep  me  a  prisoner!" 

Linda  clutched  instantly  at  this  confirmation  of  her 

suspicions,    but   under    the    influence    of    Dioneme's 

mature  and  absorbing  personality  they  seemed,  all  at 

once,  of  less  importance.      She  began  once  more  to 

[  196] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

realize  that  she  was  inexperienced  and  shy,  but,  not- 
withstanding, pursued  her  investigation. 

"  Then  you  don't  feel,  yourself,  so  very  ill  ? "  she 
asked,  sitting  down  by  Dioneme. 

"  Not  ill  enough  to  have  my  hands  tied ! " — a  look 
almost  like  petulance  crossed  Mrs.  Wylde's  face — "  but 
please  don't  talk  of  me — at  least  not  of  my  state  of 
health.  Let  us  talk  of  real  things.  Did  you  read  my 
book?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Linda. 

"Well?" 

Linda  hesitated. 

"It  was  wonderfully  good,  but  I  was  a  little  dis- 
appointed because  there  seemed  to  me  so  little  of 
yourself  in  it." 

"You  mean  of  the  self  that  you  personally  know, 
little  Linda." 

Linda  was  abashed. 

"Perhaps,"  she  admitted. 

"  Each  individual  knows  a  separate  bit  of  one,"  said 
Dioneme,  "but  put  all  together  and  added  up  they 
don't  make  one's  real  self." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  lost  in  thought  and 
Linda,  meanwhile,  studied  her  face.  Yes,  she  had 
changed ;  her  eyes  always  deeply  set  now  looked  sunken, 
her  lips  had  a  purplish  tinge.  She  looked  as  if  she 
had  suffered. 

[  197] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"I  suppose,"  went  on  Dioneme  finally,  "only  our- 
selves know  our  selves — and  that  merely  at  intervals, 
when  other  things  permit." 

"It  frightens  me,  somehow,  to  think  that!"  said 
Linda. 

"  Did  you  never  feel,"  asked  Dioneme,  sitting  upright 
and  speaking  with  more  vivacity,  "  as  if  you  had  wan- 
dered away  from  your  Self,  left  it  sitting  alone  in  some 
far-off  place?" 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Linda; 
but  she  began  to  feel  the  rising  tide  of  half-mys- 
tical excitement  which  Dioneme  often  unloosed  for 
her. 

"Sometimes,"  the  older  woman  continued  a  little 
wistfully,  "I  find  it  so  lonely  in  the  world  without  my 
Self,  I  try  to  go  back  to  the  place  where  I  seem  to  have 
left  her  and  am  in  terror  lest  I  should  not  be  able  to 
find  the  road — the  turning,  twisting  road!" 

"  Can  no  one  else  ever  find  one's  Self  ?  "  asked  Linda, 
thinking  of  the  instincts  of  love. 

"  No  one,"  Dioneme  answered  with  strange  convic- 
tion. "Self  always  sits  alone;  when  I  am  away  from 
mine  I  seem  only  to  remember  the  place  dimly,  but  it 
is  like  a  dark  forest,  where  there  is  music — like  the 
music  of  violins,  only  deeper,  perhaps — and  a  white 
starlight,  and  many  flowers." 

Dioneme's  voice  made  the  words  poetry.  There 
[  198] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

was  a  silence  after  she  had  finished.     Linda  was  al- 
most afraid  to  speak. 

"  Are  the  flowers  lilies  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"Yes,"  said  Dioneme  dreamily,  "the  flowers  are 
lilies." 

Why  had  Linda  come  ?  She  strove  to  remember 
clearly.  Oh,  yes,  to  find  out,  indirectly,  whether  the 
rumors  in  regard  to  Humphrey's  treatment  of  his 
mother  were  true  or  false. 

She  looked  at  her  friend  as  she  lay  back  among  her 
cushions  fingering  the  long  string  of  green  jade  beads 
she  was  wearing  and  was  impressed  more  than  ever 
before  with  the  belief  that  the  real  events  of  life  con- 
cerned her  but  little,  except  as  they  furnished  stimulus 
to  the  imagination  or  were  suited  for  picturesque  re- 
production. Dioneme  was  not  worldly,  she  was  not 
even  material — and  it  was  this  rare  and  exquisite 
creature,  so  Linda  reflected,  whom  Humphrey  allowed 
to  support  him  in  self-chosen  idleness.  The  thing 
was  unbelievable !  There  must  be  some  explanation. 
She  summoned  all  her  courage  to  ask  a  direct  ques- 
tion. 

"It  isn't  good,  I  should  think,  for  you  to  be  too 
much  alone.  Isn't  your  son  able  to  be  with  you 
much  ?  "  In  her  endeavor  to  look  carelessly  un-self- 
conscious  she  felt  as  if  she  were  making  strange 
grimaces. 

[  199] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"He  is  almost  always  with  me,"  Dioneme  answered, 
and  one  might  have  fancied  there  was  a  note  of  dis- 
satisfaction in  her  voice. 

"What  about  his  work?"  Linda  asked  again,  her 
heart  beating  violently  as  she  put  the  question. 

"  Haven't  you  heard  ?  He's  given  up  his  office — a 
pity,  I  think,  he  was  more  contented  when  he  had  some- 
thing to  do."  Dioneme  spoke  as  if  a  child  had  given 
up  playing  marbles.  The  thing,  evidently,  had  no 
significance  to  her.  She  was  above  all  mean  mistrust. 
Linda's  immense  pity  for  her  friend,  lit  now  by  indig- 
nation, made  it  hard  for  her  to  listen  to  the  former's 
absorbed  setting  forth  of  the  plot  for  a  new  story  which 
she  had  in  mind.  Was  it  not  on  the  income  from  that 
story  that  Humphrey,  partially,  at  least,  was  to  be 
maintained!  And  Dioneme  was  an  ill  woman,  no 
longer  young.  She  had  certainly  faded  since  Linda 
saw  her  last.  How  large  even  her  slender  hands 
looked  on  her  emaciated  arms!  The  vitality  in  her 
seemed  largely  of  the  mind,  a  flickering  gleam  il- 
luminating physical  decay.  She  seemed  tired  now. 
Perhaps  Linda's  visit  had  already  been  too  long.  She 
glanced  at  the  clock  remembering  Emma  Cooper's 
words.  Yes,  it  was  time  for  her  to  go. 

Dioneme  made  no  protest  when  she  rose.  She  did 
not  even  ask  her  to  come  again  though  her  good-by 
was  affectionately  given. 

[  200  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  When  you  kiss  me  I  feel  sad,  Linda,"  she  said.  "  I 
wonder  why!" 

At  the  door  the  young  girl  turned  for  another  look, 
but  Dioneme  lay  back  with  her  eyes  closed  and  did  not 
see  her. 

Every  detail  about  the  languid  figure  and  its  sur- 
roundings stamped  itself  on  Linda's  memory:  the 
translucent  green  jade  beads  which  lay  among  the 
folds  of  Dioneme's  dress,  the  flowering  plant  on  the 
table,  the  deep  purple  of  a  book-cover,  a  picture-frame 
in  dull  gold.  The  glow  of  the  late  afternoon  focussed 
it  all  into  a  warm  and  subtle  harmony,  like  an  illumi- 
nated missal. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Linda,  and  closed  the  door  softly 
behind  her.  Certainly  the  visit  had  given  her  no 
reason  for  regretting  the  renunciation  of  her  lover. 


[  201 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  care  of  his  mother  having  been  forced  on 
him  to  the  exclusion  of  other  things,  Humphrey 
accepted  it  dispassionately  as  an  unavoidable  obliga- 
tion, but  did  not  applaud  himself  by  repeating  fine 
phrases  in  regard  to  duty  and  unselfishness.  He  had 
nothing  of  the  spiritual  exaltation  of  the  religious  zealot 
to  console  him;  self-sacrifice  seemed  to  him  a  womanish 
virtue  at  the  best  (renunciation  being  emphatically  for 
the  feeble) ,  and  he  would  have  been  annoyed  to  have 
had  it  attributed  to  him. 

There  was  more  of  the  soldier  in  him  than  the  vision- 
ary. Life  was  discipline,  one  submitted  without  over- 
much thought  of  personal  justice  or  injustice,  one  was 
part  of  an  organization. 

What  pity  he  felt  was  for  his  mother.  She  was  a 
woman  and  Humphrey  was  capable  of  an  unreasoning 
tenderness  toward  women.  They  often  seemed  to 
him  to  have  been  but  poorly  equipped  by  their  Creator 
for  the  field  on  which  they  were  to  engage. 

Sometimes  when  he  felt  that  Dioneme  was  tired  of 
his  constant  presence  (in  spite  of  his  efforts  at  dis- 
simulation she  easily  divined  that  she  was  watched) 
[  £02  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

he  made  an  effort  and  sallied  temporarily  into  the 
world.  Peters,  too,  dragged  him  now  and  then  to  the 
play.  They  started  on  one  of  these  expeditions  a  cer- 
tain evening  toward  the  end  of  April,  Peters  bent  on  the 
process  of  what  he  called  diverting  Humphrey's  mind. 
The  theatre,  when  they  reached  it,  had  the  warm  dim- 
ness of  an  underground  aquarium,  the  light  coming 
through  thick  shades  of  green  glass.  It  was  quaint, 
unpleasant  and,  according  to  the  theories  of  the  dec- 
orator, eminently  artistic.  The  boxes,  as  it  happened, 
were  more  brightly  lighted  and  hung  conspicuously 
next  the  stage  over  the  heads  of  the  audience.  As 
Peters  and  Humphrey  took  their  seats  a  number  of 
people  entered  the  box  on  their  side  of  the  house. 
Peters,  with  great  vexation,  recognized  Linda  Arnold 
and  gave  Humphrey  a  quick  side-glance,  full  of  dis- 
may. By  what  observation,  intuition,  and  hearsay 
he  had  divined  all  the  latter's  secrets  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  say,  but  they  were  undeniably  in  his 
possession. 

Linda  came  to  the  front  of  the  box  like  Juliet  walk- 
ing out  on  her  balcony,  as  young,  as  beautiful,  as  fit 
for  love,  and  Peters  foresaw  that  it  would  be  a  hard 
evening  for  old  Humphrey. 

"I  hope  to  God  she  sits  where  he  can't  see  her!"  he 
breathed  with  inward  fervor,  but,  signalled  by  her 
hostess,  Linda  placed  herself  where  her  lovely  head  was 
[  203  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

outlined  against  a  Fra  Angelico  background  of  gold 
pillar,  startling  almost  in  its  effectiveness.  Hum- 
phrey's eyes  were  bent  on  his  programme.  If  he  had 
seen  he  gave  no  sign. 

"  Who  are  these  people  acting  to-night  ?  "  he  asked. 
"Never  heard  of  any  of  them  before!" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Norris,  absent-mindedly,"  you've 
forgotten ! " 

He  now  observed  with  increased  dismay  that  Walter 
Jackson  had  seated  himself  behind  Linda  in  the  box 
and  was  leaning  over,  talking  into  her  ear  with  an  air 
of  willingly  advertised  devotion. 

"Damn  it  all!"  said  Peters  to  himself,  and  aloud: 
"  I  think  you'll  like  that  scene  in  the  desert,  the  one  in 
the  third  act,  remember,  I  told  you  about  it." 

"Is  it  a  desert  with  real  sand?"  asked  Humphrey 
with  a  dreary  attempt  at  humor  which  Peters  ap- 
plauded with  a  mirthless  but  well-intentioned  laugh. 

He  saw  his  friend  glance  upward,  constrainedly,  and 
as  if  against  his  violent  determination,  at  the  upper 
box. 

"  Why  the  devil  doesn't  the  thing  begin  ?  "  exclaimed 
Peters  nervously;  but  just  then  the  curtain  rose  on  a 
solemn  convent  scene. 

"  Thought  you  said  it  was  an  amusing  play  ? "  said 
Humphrey  somewhat  querulously.  He  found  Peters's 
society  intolerable.  Peters  he  knew  was  secretly  sym- 
[  204  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

pathizing  with  him — watching  to  see  how  he  felt,  and 
his  attempts  to  be  tactful,  to  deal  with  the  situation 
skilfully,  to  direct  Humphrey's  attention,  made  the 
latter  feel  like  homicide. 

"  It  is  amusing,  I  mean  entertaining.  I  didn't  know 
you  expected  a  roaring  farce.  Perhaps  we  had  better 
try  something  else,"  replied  Peters,  opening  a  way  of 
escape  if  Humphrey  should  be  inclined  to  take  it. 

"  Nonsense ! "  exclaimed  the  latter  with  an  effort  at 
good-humor.  "This  is  all  right.  The  convent  sur- 
prised me,  that's  all." 

But  when  the  play  was  well  on,  and  Norris  fell  per- 
force into  silence,  Humphrey  found  that  his  friend's 
well-meant  offices  had  not  been  without  their  small 
success.  Left  to  himself  it  was  as  if  all  his  past  weeks 
of  stoic  endurance  had  massed  themselves  together 
to  break  upon  him  now  irresistibly.  At  each  glance  he 
stole  at  Linda  and  Jackson  a  new  pang  smote  him, 
physical  in  its  intensity.  Yet  in  spite  of  all,  each  turn 
of  Linda's  head,  each  movement  of  her  hand  was,  in 
a  way,  dear  to  him  and  put  immediately  away  in  his 
memory  for  eternal  preservation. 

Once,  indeed,  her  look  was  turned  downward  tow- 
ard the  audience;  she  seemed  to  be  gazing  directly  at 
him,  but  he  had  no  means  of  guessing  whether  she  saw 
him  or  not.  She  gave  no  sign.  Meanwhile  the  play 
went  on  in  what  appeared  confusion  and  inanity.  Its 
[  205  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

sense  escaped  Humphrey  altogether,  he  saw  the  actors 
coming  and  going,  speaking,  moving  their  hands,  as 
an  animal  might  have  seen  them,  with  keen  but  un- 
apprehending  vision. 

After  the  end  of  the  first  act  he  and  Peters  went  out 
to  get  a  breath  of  air  and  smoke  a  cigarette.  Standing 
together  in  silence  they  watched  several  thin,  long- 
legged  young  men  in  evening  clothes  dart  across  the 
street  from  the  theatre  to  a  small  cafe  opposite,  as 
grotesque  as  adjutant  birds. 

"Have  a  drink  with  me?"  said  Peters,  "do  you 
good!" 

"  No,"  said  Humphrey  shortly. 

"I  was  mistaken  about  this  play,"  said  Peters  again, 
after  a  pause.  "Rotten  bad  stuff!  Think  it's  worth 
going  on  with  it?" 

Again,  he  hinted  at  escape,  feeling  as  cunningly 
diplomatic  as  a  mother  with  a  difficult  child  to  manage. 

"Do  as  you  like,"  replied  Humphrey,  "I'm  going 
to  see  it  through." 

They  went  back  to  their  seats  and  Linda,  who  had 
apparently  been  chatting  with  some  one  in  the  back 
of  the  box,  at  almost  the  same  moment  resumed  her 
place  of  beatitude  against  the  gold  pillar.  During  the 
second  act  Humphrey  did  not  once  raise  his  eyes 
to  her. 

"Who  knows  what  it  costs  him,"  thought  Peters. 
[  206  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"He's  up  against  it  this  time  sure  enough,  poor  old 
Humphrey!" 

On  the  stage  the  heroine,  dismounting  from  a  real 
Egyptian  donkey,  was  about  to  enter  the  tent  her  lover 
had  prepared  for  her  in  the  desert.  The  audience, 
enchanted  with  the  donkey,  were  preparing  to  have 
their  nerves  pleasantly  titillated  by  what  was  under- 
stood to  be  a  more  than  usually  indecorous  love  scene, 
when  suddenly  a  shrill  cry  exploded  in  the  gallery. 
There  was  something  in  the  crude,  piercing  terror  of 
this  cry  which  froze  that  first  inevitable  impulse  to 
laugh  at  the  unexpected,  common  to  all  Americans. 
This  was  tragedy,  swift,  unmistakable — but  what, 
what?" 

The  house  rose  to  its  feet  with  a  simultaneous  move- 
ment, faced  the  galleries,  and  swayed  for  a  moment  in 
heavy  bewilderment,  like  a  savage  and  unwieldy  ani- 
mal suddenly  confronted  with  danger. 

The  cry  rang  out  again,  more  intense  this  time, 
terrible  in  its  concentration  of  fear. 

"  Fire — is  it  Jlre  ! "  said  some  one  to  his  neighbor. 
The  word  was  instantly  caught  up,  repeated,  itself  a 
conflagration. 

Humphrey  found  himself,  he  never  knew  how,  half- 
way up  the  stairs  leading  to  Linda's  box.  He  met  her 
hurrying  down,  white-cheeked,  and  they  stood  face  to 
face  for  an  instant  in  the  beginning  of  a  wild  turmoil, 
[  207  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then,  almost  im- 
mediately, Linda  was  drawn  back  from  above,  there 
seemed  to  be  a  sudden  calm  in  the  theatre.  During 
that  moment  on  the  stairs  some  change  had  taken  place 
in  the  spirit  of  the  audience. 

Humphrey,  wondering,  turned  back  and  met  Norris 
Peters,  who  was  laughing.  People  had  resumed  their 
seats,  and  were  talking  together  with  relief  and  pleas- 
ant animation,  the  actors  prepared  to  go  on  with  the 
play. 

"A  tempest  in  a  tea-pot,"  said  Peters.  "Man 
fainted  in  the  gallery  and  his  wife  thought  he  was  dead 
and  got  hysteria." 

"It  was  touch  and  go,"  remarked  Humphrey. 
"Half  a  minute  more  and  we  should  have  had  a 
panic." 

His  own  moment  of  tremor  had  been  that  meeting 
with  Linda  on  the  stairs.  The  marvel  of  it  stayed 
with  him.  Why  had  they  sought  each  other  instinc- 
tively, without  conscious  will  or  intention  ?  What  had 
her  eyes  said  to  him?  He  could  not  answer,  but  his 
trouble  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening  grew  less. 
During  that  brief  moment  with  Linda  on  the  stairs, 
something  in  her  had  responded  to  him,  of  that  he  felt 
sure;  their  natures  had  met  in  a  mysterious  flash  as 
once  before  when  he  had  dared  to  hope  that  he  might 
win  her. 

[  208  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Now,  indeed,  he  had  given  up  the  thought  of  per- 
sonal happiness.  Linda  was  not  for  him.  That  he  ac- 
cepted or  persuaded  himself  he  did,  fixing  his  mind  on 
other  obligations.  Notwithstanding,  the  lightening  of 
his  pain  persisted. 

The  play  went  on,  and  now  as  he  looked  furtively 
from  time  to  time  at  the  upper  box  (Peters  still  watched 
him)  it  seemed  to  Humphrey  as  if  Linda,  against  her 
gold  pillar,  was  languid  and  absent-minded. 

Once,  in  fact,  she  turned  slightly  and  seemed  to  be 
searching  the  audience.  Could  it  be  for  him! 

But  destiny  was  malignly  capricious  to  Humphrey 
that  night,  played  pitch  and  toss  with  him  unmerci- 
fully. The  party  in  the  box  left  a  little  before  the  play 
ended.  When  they  departed  Peters  heaved  a  sigh  of 
immense  relief  as  if  a  burden  had  been  removed  from 
him,  and — the  curtain  finally  lowered — and  he  began 
to  talk  to  Humphrey  for  the  first  time  that  evening 
with  his  usual  ease  and  spontaneity.  Progress  toward 
the  door  was  slow  and  in  the  vestibule  they  were 
stopped  altogether.  A  light  rain  had  begun  to  fall  out- 
side and  the  unforeseen  demand  for  taxi-cabs  and  han- 
soms was  impossible  to  supply  at  once.  The  crowd, 
wedged  together  in  almost  indecent  promiscuity,  was 
for  the  most  part  tolerant  and  patient,  chatting  wit- 
lessly  about  the  play. 

Surrounded  on  all  sides  by  plump  and  over-scented 
[  209  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

femininity,  Humphrey  found  himself,  little  by  little  and 
from  fear  of  uncivil  resistance,  propelled  away  from 
his  companion.  Behind  him  two  women,  one  of  whom 
kept  unconsciously  prodding  his  arm  with  an  object 
which  he  conceived  to  be  a  small  bag  containing 
opera-glasses,  talked  together  in  cultivated  but  some- 
what acidulous  accents. 

"One  never  sees  a  human  being  one  knows  at  the 
play  nowadays,"  said  one  voice.  "Where  do  all 
these  people  come  from  ?  " 

"From  Duluth  and  Hoboken,"  responded  the  other, 
evidently  sharing  the  general  New  York  opinion  that 
the  above  cities  have  only  a  humorous  significance. 
"  But  you  forget  Linda  Arnold ! " 

Humphrey  felt  an  overpowering  desire  to  escape, 
but,  short  of  exercising  that  force  which,  directed  against 
woman,  is  traditionally  supposed  to  be  unmanly,  this 
was  impossible.  He  was  as  annoyed  at  hearing  Lin- 
da's name  mentioned  in  this  way  as  if  he  had  been 
confronted  unexpectedly,  in  a  public  place  with  some 
blatant  poster  representing  her  face. 

"Oh,  yes,  Linda  Arnold!"  repeated  the  first  voice, 
aggravating  the  offence,  "  she  looked  very  well  to-night, 
too,  but  I  can't  say  I  admire  her  as  much  as  some 
people  do.  It  isn't  a  type  I  especially  care  for." 

"She  doesn't  look  as  well  as  she  did.  She  has 
grown  thinner,  I  think." 

[  210  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Humphrey,  urged  to  desperation,  once  more  es- 
sayed to  move  forward,  but  the  expanse  of  purple  satin 
evening  cloak  in  front  of  him  resisted  like  a  granite  wall. 
Over  the  tops  of  outrageously  coiffed  heads,  heavy 
with  curls,  he  looked  out  at  rain-splashed  Broadway, 
an  unattainable  paradise. 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  seen  her  since  her  engage- 
ment to  Walter  Jackson  was  announced,"  said  the 
voice  behind  him  placidly,  and  at  the  words,  the 
theatre,  the  people,  Broadway  and  the  world  suddenly 
faded  from  Humphrey's  consciousness.  But  the  voice 
persisted : 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  it  had  been  formally  an- 
nounced!" 

"Two  days  ago,  but  it  hasn't  been  in  the  papers 
yet." 

Here  for  some  undiscoverable  reason  the  crowd  sud- 
denly surged  forward  and  Humphrey  found  himself 
beside  Peters  once  more  and  near  the  door. 

"  The  sea  has  given  up  its  dead ! "  exclaimed  the  lat- 
ter with  humorous  intent.  A  glance  at  Humphrey's 
face,  however,  alarmed  him. 

"What's  up  now!"  thought  this  intuitive  and  long- 
suffering  friend. 

With  all  the  sympathy  in  the  world  it  is  hardly  pos- 
sible to  take  the  love  affairs  of  others  with  the  unfailing 
sympathy  they  deserve,  and  for  one  shameful  moment 
[211  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Peters  felt  that  the  evening  had  been  a  very  irksome 
one,  and  wearied  a  little  of  his  role  of  silent  supporter. 
Moreover,  as  he  was  thirty,  six  years  older  than  Hum- 
phrey, he  took  a  more  or  less  elderly  view  of  passion 
and  permitted  himself  to  hope  that  the  latter  would  out- 
live his  present  sufferings. 

But  to  Peters's  credit  it  must  be  said  that  this  callous- 
ness was  quickly  forgotten  and  he  became  all  unselfish- 
ness again  in  the  consideration  of  Humphrey's  actual 
state,  which  showed  itself  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  ill 
humor  against  the  construction  of  the  theatre,  its 
general  management,  and  particularly  its  way  of 
handling  a  departing  audience. 

Such  irritability,  almost  unprecedented  in  Hum- 
phrey, showed  that  his  nerves  were  in  a  bad  state. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Peters  soothingly.  "You're 
right  about  the  construction  of  the  theatre.  This  kind 
of  thing  is  outrageous."  He  busied  himself  with  se- 
curing a  taxi-cab,  but  when  he  had  finally  succeeded, 
Humphrey  refused  to  share  it  with  him  saying  that  he 
wanted  a  walk. 

"  Best  thing  for  him,  perhaps,"  reflected  Peters  as- 
senting to  this;  but  as  he  drove  off  he  retained  an  un- 
pleasantly vivid  impression  of  his  friend's  face  as  he 
stood,  vacant-eyed,  in  the  rain. 


[212] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DR.  MACKLEVAINE  sat  in  Mrs.  Wjlde's  draw- 
ing-room, his  heavy  figure  sunk  in  an  arm-chair, 
inelastic,  suggestive  of  momentary  despondency.  He 
was  alone,  waiting  for  Dioneme,  who  had  been  much 
better  for  a  few  days,  almost  like  her  old  self.  In  his 
mind  he  was  reviewing  her  case,  shunning  even  in  the 
most  secret  place  of  his  thought  the  use  of  a  too  ugly 
word. 

Lover  and  physician  confronted  each  other  grimly, 
and  the  former  held  the  latter  dominated  though  ac- 
knowledged the  clearer-sighted. 

Lover  cried  to  physician:  "Save  her!"  and  the 
physician  did  not  dare  respond:  "There  is  no  way." 
To  be  blind  where  he  saw,  to  hope  where  he  despaired 
— that  was  Macklevaine's  problem. 

Little  by  little  his  mind  ceased  to  struggle  with  it, 
drifted  back  to  the  past — twenty-three  years  since  he 
had  first  known  Dioneme!  He  sighed,  ponderously, 
shifting  his  weight  from  one  side  to  another.  His  eyes 
fell  on  a  little  red  amber  dog  standing  on  a  table  near 
him.  He  had  sent  her  that  bit  of  amber,  he  remem- 
bered, on  one  of  the  first  Christmases  of  their  acquaint- 
[213] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

anceship,  a  trifling  acknowledgment  of  the  hospitality 
she  and  her  husband  had  extended  to  him.  For  years 
Macklevaine  had  not,  in  his  simple,  science-enveloped 
and  possibly  bourgeois  soul,  conceived  the  idea  that 
he  might  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  married  wom- 
an. Diagnosis  of  the  emotions  had  never  been  his 
specialty.  With  his  eyes  still  on  the  little  red  amber 
dog,  which  gleamed  like  the  heart  of  a  fire  in  the  ray  of 
light  which  fell  athwart  it,  old  Macklevaine  recalled 
the  moment  when  a  consciousness  of  what  seemed  to 
him  his  guilt  finally  reached  him. 

It  had  happened  one  evening  when  Dioneme  stood 
beside  Morris  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  as  he  was  saying 
good-by  late  at  night  to  them  both.  He  remembered 
the  gesture,  full  of  tenderness  and  abandonment,  with 
which  Dioneme  had  thrown  back  her  lovely  head 
against  her  husband's  shoulder.  The  sudden  pang 
which  smote  him  then  had  been  the  birth-pain  of  con- 
scious passion.  Since  then — the  long  road! — the 
stoicism,  the  self-denial! — Now  he  was  old. 

He  brooded  with  his  head  on  his  breast  until  he 
heard  Dioneme's  step.  As  she  came  in  the  room  and 
he  looked  up  at  her,  he  was  conscious  not  merely  of  her 
charming,  faintly  smiling  face,  her  silvery  dress,  her 
slow  motion,  but  of  a  hundred  impalpable  and  out- 
lived things  in  which  she  seemed  to  exist  as  in  an 
atmosphere. 

[  214  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

Around  her  hung,  as  it  were,  in  a  shimmery  nimbus, 
all  that  she  had  suffered,  all  that  she  had  sinned,  her 
most  secret  thoughts,  her  most  obscure  aspirations. 
He  felt  in  every  fibre  a  sense  of  the  woman  herself,  a 
strangely  perfected,  composite  personality,  colored  by 
the  passage  of  experience  with  a  thousand  hues  as 
varying  as  those  of  some  wave- washed  shell ;  yet  even 
in  this  rare  moment  of  perception  she  remained  mys- 
terious to  him. 

"  Humphrey  says  I  must  go  away,"  were  Dioneme's 
first  words.  Her  eyes  were  troubled  as  they  rested  on 
the  doctor's  face.  There  was  a  certain  childish  help- 
lessness about  her.  "Was  it  you  who  put  it  in  his 
head?" 

"  We  certainly  spoke  of  it,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Your 
health  has  not  been  of  the  best  lately ;  you  are  tired  out 
from  the  winter,  a  little  run  down.  In  such  cases  a 
change  is  most  advisable." 

He  spoke  with  a  slightly  professional  manner, 
gruffly  even.  No  one  would  have  suspected  him  of 
sympathy. 

"  But  where  shall  I  go  ?  "  asked  Dioneme,  still  child- 
ishly. 

"  Go  abroad  for  a  while,  travel,  have  a  new  environ- 
ment, see  new  people." 

Deep  in  Mrs.  Wylde's  pathetic  eyes  something  like 
a  flicker  from  old  innocent  coquetries  lit  a  gleam. 
[215  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"But  do  you  want  me  to  go,  John?" — She  did  not 
often  call  him  by  his  Christian  name. 

"I  want  only  your  own  good."  There  was  a  little 
of  conscious  paladinship  in  Macklevaine's  manner, 
but  he  had  certainly  long  proved  a  claim  to  it. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  best.  I  know  Humphrey 
thinks  so.  I  am  not  really  well.  I  seem  to  have  no 
will.  Everything  is  against  me."  Dioneme  spoke 
ambiguously,  with  gentle  indecision  of  phrase. 
Macklevaine  wondered  if  she  suspected  how  much  he 
knew  about  her.  Would  she  wince  under  the  realiza- 
tion of  this  knowledge  or  remain  entirely  apathetic? 

"How  soon  could  you  start?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  if  I  must  go,  at  any  time.  Parker  is  very 
clever.  She  could  pack  in  a  day  or  two." 

"It  might  be  hard  to  get  steamer  accommodations 
just  now  on  such  short  notice,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  though  people  often  give  up  their  rooms  at  the  last 
moment." 

"But  we  haven't  decided  yet  where  I  am  to  go," 
said  Dioneme  with  a  flicker  of  enthusiasm.  "Shall 
we  send  for  the  morning  paper?"  When  it  was 
brought  she  leaned  with  the  doctor  over  the  slightly 
smudgy  sheet  with  its  acrid  odor  of  printers'  ink. 

"How  exciting  they  are,  steamer  notices!"  she  said. 
"How  full  of  suggestion!  'The  Royal  Dutch  West 
India  Mail.'  Isn't  it  quaint  and  delicious!  Don't 
[216] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

you  smell  spices  ? — and  for  seventy-five  dollars  one 
can  take  the  Hellig  Olav — fancy  it! — and  sail  straight 
away  to  that  cold  northern  sea  of  Ibsen's,  the  blue  gleam 
in  the  background  of  all  his  plays." 

"Well,"  said  Macklevaine  tolerantly,  "shall  it  be 
either  of  these  ?  " 

"  Listen,"  exclaimed  Dioneme,  not  taking  any  notice 
of  him,  "'The  Booth  Line,  Brazil  and  Amazon  River.' 
Can't  you  see  those  hot,  thick  forests  and  hear  the  par- 
rots scream! — We've  all  got  a  glow  in  the  heart  of  us 
when  we  hear  the  word  'tropics." 

But  as  Dioneme  leaned  near  him  over  the  news- 
paper, a  faint,  unmistakable  aroma  made  Mackle- 
vaine shudder.  Lover  and  physician  clasped  hands 
now  in  mutual  trouble.  "  Fools  I  Fools ! "  he  groaned 
to  himself.  "  Can't  they  keep  the  accursed  stuff  away 
from  her!" 

"  Well,"  he  said  again  a  little  gruffly,  wrestling  with 
the  pain  in  him,  "can't  you  decide?  Where  will  you 
go?" 

"I  think,  after  all,  I  will  go  to  Paris,"  said  Dioneme 
unexpectedly.  "I  need  some  clothes." 

At  that  moment  Humphrey  joined  them.  Even  to 
Macklevaine's  unconcern  it  was  apparent  that  a  change 
had  taken  place  in  him.  He  was  thinner,  of  a  less 
healthy  color. 

"  We  are  talking  of  a  trip  to  Europe,"  said  the  doctor. 
[217] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"What  do  you  say  to  the  Augusta  Victoria,  sailing 
Saturday?" 

"Only  five  days,"  said  Humphrey  doubtfully. 
"Could  she  do  it?" 

"Why  not!"  Dioneme  replied.  "Some  one  can 
close  the  house  for  us  after  we  have  gone." 

Of  a  sudden  she  seemed  to  embrace  the  project 
eagerly,  and  a  little  more  talk  decided  it.  When  the 
doctor  left  Humphrey  went  out  with  him  and  they 
walked  down  the  street  together.  It  was  warm  and  the 
air  was  full  of  dust  and  charged  with  the  smell  of  gaso- 
lene from  passing  motor-cars.  On  the  street-corner 
stood  a  boy  with  a  basket  full  of  mimosa.  A  man  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  leaned  against  an  area  rail  talking  to  a 
pretty,  bareheaded  housemaid.  Near  the  curb-stone 
stood  a  hand-cart  piled  with  oranges,  bananas,  and 
pineapples.  The  music  of  a  hand-organ  came  from 
the  distance.  Slowly  the  city  was  relaxing  into  its 
southern  season  of  heat  and  shiftless  ease. 

"You  really  think  then,  doctor,  that  this  trip  will 
benefit  my  mother?"  asked  Humphrey. 

"It  is  her  best  chance,"  Macklevaine  replied  shortly. 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  weighing  his  words.  "  I  do 
not  say  her  only  one,"  he  added,  but  as  if  nothing 
more  than  consideration  for  Humphrey  prevented  him. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  while  we  are  away  ? "  asked  the 
younger  man.     "Is  there  any  special  thing?" 
[218  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"  See  that  she  is  not  alone,  watch  her,  do  not  let  her 
be  overtired  or  excited  or  dull." 

Macklevaine  adjusted  this  burden  on  Humphrey's 
shoulders  without  a  thought  of  its  weight.  Hum- 
phrey was  the  instrument  by  which  Dioneme  might 
possibly  be  saved,  that  was  all.  Lest  the  old  doctor 
seem  too  monstrous  in  his  thoughtlessness,  it  must  be 
said  that  he  envied  Humphrey  his  task,  difficult  and 
painful  as  it  was. 

"You  are  sure  of  the  maid,  Parker?"  he  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

"  Quite.  She's  devoted  to  my  mother,  very  trust- 
worthy," replied  Humphrey,  and,  in  a  slightly  differ- 
ent tone,  "  I've  had  proof,  you  know,  more  than  once." 

"  Hm ! "  grunted  Macklevaine.  Both  men  were  em- 
barrassed. They  had  never  but  once,  on  the  day  after 
Dioneme's  visit  to  the  Windermere,  talked  openly 
of  the  situation.  "I'm  not  without  a  suspicion  that 
your  mother  sometimes  finds  means  of  eluding  her 
still,  of  eluding  you  both,"  said  the  doctor  now.  "In 
these  cases  one  must  be  forever  vigilant.  A  cunning  is 
sometimes  developed  beyond  belief." 

Humphrey  gave  something  like  a  groan. 

"We  must  never  forget,"  went  on  Macklevaine, 
"  that  in  cases  like  this  the  amount  of  moral  responsi- 
bility is  small.  Undoubtedly  what  are  called  the  psy- 
chic neurons  are  slightly  diseased"  (physician  now  was 
[  219  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

undoubtedly  uppermost  in  him) .  "  We  have  therefore 
most  distinctly,  to  my  mind,  a  case  of  attenuated  re- 
sponsibility; Michelon  (you  have  heard  of  him,  no 
doubt)  would  deny  the  scientific  value  as  well  as  the 
practical  expediency  of  this  conclusion,  considering  it, 
as  he  has  said,  a  mere  formula,  a  label  correspond- 
ing to  no  reality.  Possibly,  regarded  in  the  light  of  its 
legal  and  social  consequence,  his  theory  is  open  to  dis- 
cussion. I,  as  a  physician,  looking  at  the  question 
from  the  stand-point  of  medicine  alone,  must  continue 
to  affirm  my  diagnosis." 

Humphrey  had  not  entirely  followed  the  doctor  in 
this  speech,  but  gathered  that  he  exonerated  his  mother 
from  the  blame  of  her  own  condition,  and  willingly 
agreed  with  him.  Indeed  neither  man  could  have  been 
brought  to  believe  that  Dioneme's  vice  was  the  out- 
come of  her  own  character  and  volition,  any  more  than 
a  malignant  growth  is  part  of  a  natural  and  healthy 
organism.  But  in  spite  of  this  faith,  upheld  by  the 
doctor  with  such  convincing  technical  phrases,  Hum- 
phrey felt  that  he  had  reached  a  point  where  he  could 
discuss  his  mother  no  longer.  He  stopped  abruptly  at 
a  street-crossing.  "I'm  taking  a  taxi  here,"  he  said. 
"  Better  lose  no  time,  I  think,  in  getting  to  the  steamer- 
office  about  those  tickets,  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

The  doctor  assenting  to  this,  they  separated  with 
mutual  relief. 

[  220  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

A  week  later  Linda,  lunching  with  Miss  Godwin, 
heard  with  painful  interest  a  report  that  Dioneme 
was  seriously  ill.  Being  referred  to  as  an  intimate 
authority  she  could  only  say  that  she  had  not  seen 
Mrs.  Wylde  for  some  time  and  had  heard  nothing 
from  her. 

"They  say,"  observed  one  of  her  fellow-guests, 
"  that  her  lungs  are  affected.  She  certainly  has  grown 
painfully  thin.  I  met  her  in  the  Chinese  shop  not  long 
ago,  looking  at  some  porcelains,  and  was  quite 
shocked." 

"  She  was  always  fragile  to  look  at,"  said  Miss  God- 
win, "  but  with  immense  vitality  all  the  same — contra- 
dictory in  that  as  in  many  things.  I've  known  her  a 
long  time,  and  at  some  periods  have  seen  a  good  deal 
of  her,  but  she  is  an  unknown  creature  to  me  still. 
She  is  always  gentle,  even  when  most  brilliant,  but 
when  I  try  to  get  near  her,  humanly,  as  it  were,  for 
warmth  and  affection,  why,  then,  I  find  myself  chilly, 
awed  a  little  by  that  same  soft  strangeness." 

Linda  had  felt  this  too  perhaps,  but  her  loyalty  re- 
sented Miss  Godwin's  words.  She  said  to  herself  that 
the  clever  old  lady's  personality,  genial  as  it  might  be, 
was  not  one  that  would  enable  her  to  approach  very 
closely  to  Dioneme. 

"  What  humanity  Mrs.  Wylde  has,  it  seems  to  me," 
said  another  woman,  "is  put  into  that  wide  general 
[221  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

sympathy  which  enables  her  to  write  the  books  she 
does.  She  never  appears  to  have  much  personal  feel- 
ing.— But  I'm  very  sorry  she  is  ill.  Consumption,  you 
say  ?  How  dreadful ! " 

"It's  only  a  rumor,"  said  Miss  Godwin  stubbornly. 
"  I  feel  sure  it  is  not  true."  But  Linda,  nevertheless, 
was  alarmed  and  fearful.  Something  in  her  deeper 
nature  was  touched  and  reverberated  painfully.  Of 
late  she  had  only  been  moving  nonchalantly  on  the  sur- 
face of  things,  occupied  with  the  festivities  and  mani- 
festations of  friendship  incident  to  the  announcement 
of  her  engagement.  She  was  inclined  to  agree  with 
Julie  that  she  had  settled  her  future  very  sensibly  and 
she  had  allowed  the  people  among  whom  she  had  been 
born  and  bred  to  close  in  around  her  and  shut  out  the 
rest  of  the  world.  But  there  was  the  old  thrill  at  the 
mention  of  Dioneme,  and  was  it  for  Dioneme  alone? 
This  question  she  put  aside,  conscientiously,  but  at 
least  she  could  go  to  Mrs.  Wylde's  house  to  ask  after 
her.  That  was  no  more  than  her  duty.  She  even  left 
Miss  Godwin's  a  little  earlier  than  she  had  planned  in 
order  to  do  this.  It  was  such  a  pleasant  day  that  she 
decided  to  walk  and  dismissed  her  motor,  feeling  the 
mild  thrill  of  adventure  experienced  by  young  ladies 
who  go  on  unaccustomed  feet  through  a  little-known 
part  of  town.  Gramercy  Park  was  tranquil  enough 
and  not  disconcerting,  but  in  Fourth  Avenue  and 
[  222  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Twenty-third  Street  she  found  herself  shrinking  a  little 
before  the  grim  unconcern  of  the  city.  Contemplating 
it  from  a  new  point  of  view  she  forgot  her  personal 
preoccupation  for  a  moment  and  saw  herself  for  what 
she  was,  an  inappreciable  atom.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this, 
there  came  to  her,  flashing  through  her  mind  more  in 
inspiration  than  definable  thought,  a  sense  of  her  own 
relationship  to  this  stupendous  city.  How  it  had 
formed  and  constrained  her,  this  vast  inchoate,  incom- 
prehensible mass!  She  had  been  born  of  it — was  its 
child;  its  blood  was  in  her  veins,  its  odors  clung  to 
her  skirts.  Even  in  its  very  mystery  and  power  it  was 
intimate;  everything  she  felt  and  did  became  a  part 
of  it,  was  devoured  by  its  immensity.  But  this  momen- 
tary vision  swept  over  her  like  a  cloud.  The  young 
do  not  linger  over  abstractions.  By  the  time  she 
turned  into  Madison  Avenue  her  mind  was  busy  again 
with  her  own  affairs.  She  thought  of  her  engagement. 
It  had  not  been  an  unpleasant  experience  on  the  whole. 
She  had  had  all  along  the  complacent  consciousness  of 
having  done  the  fitting  and  desirable  thing;  the  con- 
gratulations of  her  friends  had  been  unmistakably  sin- 
cere. But  beyond  all  this  was  the  inevitableness  of 
marriage,  and  marriage  with  Walter: — her  innocence 
and  her  twenty  years  shrank  a  little.  Was  it  not  better 
though  to  begin  an  indissoluble  partnership  with  some 
one  who  had  been  a  life-long  friend,  trusted  for  years, 
[  223  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

rather  than  with  a  chance  new  acquaintance  who  had 
lit  a  sudden,  unaccountable  spark  in  one's  nature  ? 

Even  as  she  reasoned  with  herself  in  this  way,  Linda 
had  a  faint  suspicion  that  she  was  grotesquely  stereo- 
typed, insincere  even. 

One  of  Walter's  gardenias  sent  her  that  morning, 
and  which  she  was  wearing,  fell  to  the  sidewalk.  She 
did  not  stoop  to  pick  it  up. 

"  I  must  tell  him  that  I  don't  care  very  much  for  gar- 
denias," she  reflected. 

Strange  that  in  all  these  years  he  had  never  found  it 
out.  Perhaps  there  were  other  things  about  her  he 
would  never  find  out!  She  wondered. 

Now  she  was  approaching  the  well-known,  brown- 
stone  house  near  Thirty-ninth  Street.  Old  times  came 
back  to  her  vividly.  Was  it  altogether  anxiety  for 
Dioneme  that  made  her  nervous  ?  She  evaded  the 
question.  What  if  she  should  meet  Humphrey  coming 
down  the  steps  ?  Would  he  stop  and  speak  to  her  or 
would  they  merely  look  long  at  each  other  in  silence 
as  on  that  strange  night  at  the  theatre — the  night  of 
the  threatened  panic  ?  The  mere  imaginative  picturing 
of  this  possible  encounter  troubled  her  inexplicably. 

As  she  walked  on  she  saw  that  in  front  of  the  Wylde 

house  there  was  a  vacuum  cleaning  wagon.     A  trail  of 

rubber  tubing  lay  up  the  steps,  unpleasantly  reptilian 

in  form  and  color.     The  windows  were  all  wide-open 

[  224  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

and  some  one  was  shaking  a  dust-cloth  from  the  second 
floor.  A  bleak  activity  seemed  generally  in  progress. 
The  whole  place  had  become  meaningless  and  imper- 
sonal, repellent  of  all  hospitality. 

"They  are  certainly  having  a  violent  house-clean- 
ing!" thought  Linda,  endeavoring  to  reassure  herself 
against  what  seemed  almost  certain  disappointment. 

Her  ring  at  the  door-bell  was  answered  after  some 
delay  by  a  frowsy  scrubwoman,  with  bare,  red  arms 
and  a  turned  up  gingham  apron,  who  looked  at  Linda 
with  unexplained  hostility. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  there's  nobody  here.  The  family 
sailed  for  Europe  two  days  ago." 

"For  long?"  Linda  asked. 

"  Sure,  I  don't  know  nothing  at  all  about  it.  Ye'll 
have  to  find  out  somewhere  else,"  said  the  woman, 
still  in  her  mysteriously  aggressive  manner. 

Linda  was  on  the  point  of  making  other  inquiries, 
but  checked  herself.  What  was  the  use ! 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  to  the  warlike  Irishwoman, 
and  wishing  her  good-morning  with  a  politeness  which 
had  still  some  lingering  hope  of  being  propitiatory  she 
went  down  the  brown-stone  steps  again. 

She  felt  suddenly  tired  arid  wished  she  had  not  sent 

away  her  motor-car.     What  unacknowledged  hopes 

and  desires  had  been  in  her  when  she  came  to  the 

house  of  Humohrey's  mother  that  now  she  felt  such  a 

[  225  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

sickness  of  defeat?  She  had,  as  it  were,  risked  a  last 
throw  of  the  dice  with  fate  and  been,  once  for  all,  de- 
feated. 

Youth  is  always  tragically  accepting  a  finality  in 
human  relationships  (in  effect,  there  is  only  one). 
Already  Linda  had  many  times  said  to  herself,  "  This  is 
the  end."  Once  more,  and  this  time  with  completest 
conviction,  she  repeated  the  phrase.  Was  she  not  to 
marry  Walter  Jackson  in  June  ? 


[  226  ] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"T   HEAR  that  your  friends  the  Wyldes  have  gone 

A  away,"  said  Julie,  in  a  light,  conversational  tone. 
She  and  Linda  were  in  the  former's  sitting-room  amid 
a  confusion  of  key-boxes,  inventories,  moth-balls,  and 
neatly  labelled  packages.  It  was  the  day  before  they 
were  to  move  to  the  country,  and  Julie,  with  her  usual 
system,  had  been  personally  supervising  the  putting- 
away  of  many  small  articles.  Now,  somewhat  tired 
but  complacently  aware  of  having  been  equal  to  the 
situation,  she  was  taking  a  cup  of  tea  from  a  japanned 
tray  and  with  a  kitchen  spoon,  as  the  household  silver 
had  already  been  sent  away. 

"  Yes,  they  sailed  last  week,"  replied  Linda  shortly. 

"There  was  always  something  a  little  odd  about 
those  people,  to  me,"  Julie  went  on.  "Apart  from 
their  behavior  the  night  of  that  dinner,  I  mean.  I 
never  liked  to  say  what  I  really  thought  of  them  be- 
cause I  was  afraid  of  hurting  your  feelings — but  lately 
you  have  seen  so  little  of  them." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  my  feelings,"  said  Linda 
in  a  level  tone.  "  I  have  heard  all  kinds  of  things  about 
Humphrey  Wylde." 

[  227  ]  ' 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  But  don't  you  yourself  think  it  a  little  odd  ?  Here 
is  a  man  who  is  dependent  on  what  his  mother  allows 
him — he  contrives  to  come  between  her  and  all  her 
friends  and  isolates  her  so  that  she  can  see  no  one  but 
the  people  he  himself  selects.  Now  I  hear  they  have 
suddenly  left  the  country  with  no  notice  to  any  of  their 
friends,  and  giving  apparently  no  address.  At  least, 
not  a  soul  seems  to  know  where  they  have  gone." 

"  They  are  not,  at  least  Dioneme  is  not,  very  conven- 
tional, and  she  has  been  ill,  too,  and  probably  wants  to 
get  away  from  people."  There  was  not  much  warmth 
in  Linda's  defence  and  Julie  felt  it  and  was  encouraged 
to  go  on. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  altogether  believe  what  some  peo- 
ple say — that  she  has  an  incurable  disease  and  cannot 
live  long,  and  that  the  son,  knowing  how  erratic  and 
easily  influenced  she  is,  is  worried  lest  she  might  be  in- 
duced to  make  a  will  against  him." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  believe  that  then,"  said  Linda  list- 
lessly; Julie  was  puzzled  by  something  in  her  sister's 
accent. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  she  asked  with  real  curios- 
ity. 

"I  think  we  bother  our  heads  far  too  much  about 
things  that  don't  concern  us  in  the  least,"  exclaimed 
Linda  with  sudden   and  vehement,   moral   triteness, 
"  and  I  rather  wonder  at  you,  Julie! " 
[  228  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Julie  was  abashed  and  lost  for  a  moment  her  elder- 
sister  air  of  complete  assurance  and  competency. 

"  I  was  only  rather  sorry  for  Mrs.  Wylde,"  she  mur- 
mured lamely. 

"In  spite  of  her  being  'odd'!" 

"  Really,  my  dear,  I'm  not  as  narrow-minded  as  you 
always  seem  to  think,"  Julie  plucked  up  courage 
enough  to  say.  But  Linda  was  not  disposed  to  argue 
further,  and  fed  Paddy  small  morsels  of  buttered  toast 
in  silence. 

"  I'm  glad  you  are  going  to  be  married  in  the  coun- 
try," remarked  Julie,  after  a  sufficiently  long  pause  for 
relations  with  her  sister  to  resume  their  perfect  equilib- 
rium. "There  is  nothing  so  nice  as  a  country  wed- 
ding, and  in  June  too." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Linda,  "  if  it's  a  nice  day." 

"  Have  you  decided  about  the  bridesmaids' dresses  ?" 

"I  haven't  even  thought  of  them." 

Julie's  occasional  and  distressing  suspicion  that  her 
sister  was  unlike  other  girls  had  received  food  from  the 
manner  in  which  Linda  contemplated  her  wedding. 
Surely  it  was  unnatural  and  wanting  in  appropriate 
feeling.  Here  a  servant  came  in  and  informed  Linda 
that  a  Miss  Cooper  wished  to  see  her. 

"Cooper?  Cooper,"  Linda  searched  her  memory 
for  an  instant. — Ah,  yes,  Emma  Cooper,  the  typist! 
"  Where  did  you  put  her,  James  ?  " 
[  229  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"She's  in  the  little  room  downstairs,  miss." 

"  Well,  show  her  into  the  library  and  say  that  I  will 
be  down  directly." 

"  Who  is  '  Emma  Cooper'  ? "  inquired  Julie. 

"  Only  a  working  woman  I  am  interested  in.  I  told 
her  once  to  come  to  me  if  she  needed  help." 

"From  one  of  your  charities,  I  suppose,"  commented 
her  sister,  and  Linda  did  not  enlighten  her  further. 

In  the  library  she  found  Miss  Cooper,  seated  on  the 
edge  of  a  chair,  plainly  embarrassed,  not  by  her  sur- 
roundings but  by  her  mission.  The  signs  of  poverty 
which  Linda  had  noticed  about  her  at  their  last  meet- 
ing were  even  more  evident.  When  she  had  with  dif- 
ficulty and  not  without  assistance  explained  her  neces- 
sity and  Linda  had  promised  to  help  her  she  rose  to 
leave,  stiffly  formal. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  Linda  kindly,  "  stay  and  tell  me  a 
little  more  about  yourself.  Are  you  still  at  Mrs.  Min- 
delbaum's?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cooper,  sitting  down  again,  at 
once  voluble  and  self-possessed  when  it  was  no  longer  a 
matter  of  asking  favors,  "I'm  still  there.  Mindel- 
baum  's  been  real  considerate.  I  took  a  smaller  room 
of  course,  higher  up  under  the  roof.  She  wouldn't  hear 
of  my  leaving.  Give  me  the  Jews  every  time,  I  say ! " 

"  And  the  little  manicure  you  used  to  tell  me  about, 
Flora — something — is  she  there  too  ?  " 
[  230  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Miss  Cooper's  face  sobered,  though  its  expression  of 
self-importance  increased.  "Why,  it's  a  long  story 
about  Flora,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  want  to  take  up 
your  time." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  just  now,"  said  Linda,  "I 
should  like  to  hear  it." 

"  It's  been  a  great  worry  to  me;  I've  been  at  my  wit's 
end  about  it,"  began  Miss  Cooper.  "You  remember 
I  told  you  Flora  had  a  beau  and  used  to  go  out  with 
him,  and  how  the  people  at  Mindelbaum's  were  begin- 
ning to  say  things  and  act  ugly  to  her.  Well,  it  went 
on  for  some  time.  I  used  to  talk  to  her  till  I  guess  she 
hated  me,  but  it  wasn't  any  use.  Her  head  was  com- 
pletely turned  because  he  was  a  gentleman,  or  so  she 
said.  I  never  saw  him  myself.  He  was  always 
mighty  careful  about  that.  When  he  took  her  to  the 
theatre  she  always  used  to  meet  him  at  a  restau- 
rant or  some  such  place.  Flora  tried  me  a  good  deal, 
she  was  so  uppish  about  it  all,  and  every  cent  she  could 
scrape  together  she  put  on  her  back.  She  bought  a 
hat  with  ostrich  feathers  that  made  her  look  like  the 
picture  of  an  actress — it  was  becoming  enough  in  a  way, 
but  she  ought  not  to  have  worn  it. 

"One  afternoon  in  Easter  week  she  came  into  my 
room  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  and  said  she  was 
going  to  a  place  on  Long  Island  to  have  supper — going 
in  an  automobile. 

[231  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

" '  Who's  going  with  you  ? '  I  asked, '  any  other  wom- 
an ?'  She  just  giggled  and  said  I  was  a  fussy  old  maid 
that  hadn't  had  any  good  times  myself  and  didn't  want 
any  one  else  to  have  any. 

"'I  guess  I  can  look  out  for  myself,'  she  said,  'and 
anyway  my  friend  is  a  perfect  gentleman.'  She  had 
said  that  so  many  times  it  made  me  sort  of  sick.  Well, 
off  she  went  in  a  pale  blue  chiffon  automobile  veil  she'd 
bought  herself,  and  somehow  she  was  so  kind  of  child- 
ish and  happy  I  didn't  feel  as  mad  with  her  as  I  ought 
to  have  been. 

"  I  didn't  expect  her  home  until  late,  but  I  had  some 
copying  work  to  do  that  night  so  I  just  thought  I'd  sit 
up  and  see  her  when  she  came  in.  I  left  the  door  of  my 
room  ajar  so  I  could  hear  her  come  up  the  stairs.  She 
had  a  key  so  that  she  could  let  herself  in  without  wak- 
ing up  the  girl.  After  eleven  the  house  got  quiet.  I 
finished  my  work  and  by  the  time  it  struck  twelve 
began  to  worry  a  little.  She  hadn't  any  business  to 
be  out  alone  as  late  as  that.  Perhaps  something  had 
happened  to  that  old  automobile !  I  got  real  nervous 
finally,  somehow  I  knew  it  wasn't  the  automobile 
and  when  I  thought  of  her  going  off  so  young  and 
pretty  in  her  blue  veil!  Well,  to  make  a  long  story 
short  she  never  came  back  that  whole  night.  I 
just  sat,  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  listening  for  a 
step  on  the  stairs.  It  was  awful.  I  never  felt  like 
[  232  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

going  to  sleep  at  all.  If  Flora  had  been  my  own  sister 
I  couldn't  have  felt  worse,  but,  of  course,  all  women  are 
kind  of  sisters. 

"When  it  began  to  get  light  I  went  into  Flora's 
room  and  mussed  up  the  bed  so  that  it  would  look  as  if 
some  one  had  slept  in  it  and  I  poured  out  some  water 
in  the  basin  and  washed  my  hands  and  wiped  them  on 
a  towel.  I  didn't  want  any  one  in  the  house  to  suspect 
anything  if  I  could  help  it.  Later  I  dressed  myself  all 
fresh  and  went  down  to  breakfast.  I  guess  I  must 
have  looked  pretty  badly,  for  Mrs.  Mindelbaum  asked 
if  I  was  sick. 

"'Where's  Miss  Kelly  this  morning?'"  asked  that 
Lizzie  Graham.  '  Has  any  one  seen  her  ? ' 

" '  She's  not  here,'  I  said, '  she  had  to  be  out  early  to- 
day.' So  no  one  thought  any  more  about  that. 

"I  had  to  go  out  after  breakfast  to  see  a  man  who 
had  half  promised  me  some  work,  but  I  felt  pretty  mis- 
erable, I  can  tell  you.  When  I  got  back  at  one  o'clock 
I  went  to  Flora's  door.  It  was  tight  shut.  I  knocked, 
but  got  no  answer  for  a  minute,  so  I  knocked  again. 
My  heart  was  in  my  mouth.  I  had  a  feeling  she  was 
there — but  would  she  let  me  in  ?  And  how  would  she 
treat  me — sort  of  hard  and  defiant  ?  I  didn't  want  to 
hear  her  laugh ;  somehow  I  knew  it  would  be  a  differ- 
ent kind  of  laugh  from  the  one  she  went  away  with  and 
I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  it.  After  a  while  I  heard  Flora's 
voice  saying :  '  Who's  there  ? ' 
[  233  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"'It's  me,  Emma  Cooper,'  I  said,  and  I  tried  to 
make  my  voice  a  little  encouraging,  so  she  wouldn't  be 
afraid  of  me. 

"Then  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  then 
Flora's  voice  said  again, '  Come  in.' 

"  Well,  I  went  in  and  she  was  lying  on  the  bed,  all  in 
a  heap,  crying.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  anything  left 
of  her.  She  made  me  think  of  something  that  had 
been  broken  and  thrown  away.  I  tell  you,  Miss  Ar- 
nold, I  hated  that  man. 

"'Oh,  Emma!'  she  said,  when  she  saw  me,  and  she 
just  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  buried  her 
face  against  me,  as  if  she  didn't  want  me  to  look  at 
her. 

"After  a  while  I  went  down  stairs,  and  got  Mrs. 
Mindelbaum  to  let  me  take  her  up  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
piece  of  bread  and  butter.  I  told  Mrs.  Mindelbaum 
Flora  had  a  sick  headache.  She  couldn't  eat  anything, 
but  she  drank  the  tea  and  it  made  her  feel  better  so  that 
she  sat  hunched  up  in  the  bed  and  told  me  everything. 
Well,  it's  not  exactly  the  story  for  you  to  hear." 

"  No,"  said  Linda  mechanically,  and  shuddered. 

"I  guess  things  happen  like  that  pretty  often,"  Miss 
Cooper  went  on,  "but  they  seem  terrible  when  they 
come  near  to  you,  and  Flora  was  always  one  of  the  kind 
who  have  to  tell  everything  sooner  or  later.  She  even 
told  me  the  man's  name,  'Walter  Jackson,'  she  said, 
but  naturally  it  didn't  mean  anything  to  me." 
[  234  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

At  this  point  Linda  startled  the  narrator  by  rising 
abruptly  and  walking  to  the  window.  She  had  not 
spoken,  but  the  effect  of  her  action  was  as  if  she  had 
given  a  sharp  and  sudden  cry. 

"Why!" — said  Miss  Cooper,  hesitating,  amazed. 
But  Linda  recovered  speedily  her  presence  of  mind  and 
turned  to  face  her  visitor. 

"It  is  a  terrible  story,"  she  said,  "I  felt  faint  almost 
for  a  moment.  It  is  all  over  now."  She  looked  a  little 
pale,  but  smiled  reassuringly  at  Emma's  anxious  con- 
cern. 

"You're  too  sympathetic,  that's  what  it  is!."  ex- 
claimed the  typist.  "  I  hadn't  ought  to  tell  you  things 
like  this." 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Linda,  "it's  better  to  know 
things!  Did  Flora  Kelly  ever  tell  you  how  the  man 
looked?" 

"  She  always  said  he  was  a  great  swell,  tall  and  thin, 
with  fair  hair  and  he  wore  an  eye-glass." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  was  his  real  name  ? "  she  asked 
again. 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure,  because  she  found  it  out  by  chance 
at  first.  He  let  an  envelope  addressed  to  him  fall  out 
of  his  pocket-book.  I  guess  he  wouldn't  have  let  her 
know  it  except  for  that." 

"Probably  not,"  assented  Linda.  Her  own  calm- 
ness and  freedom  from  personal  distress  amazed  her. 
At  the  same  time  she  was  aware  that  beneath  it  all 
[  235  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

smouldered  an  anger  so  intense  that  she  dreaded  being 
alone  and  feeling  it  burst  into  flame.  Though  Emma, 
dimly  uneasy,  now  wished  to  leave  her,  she  detained 
her  as  long  as  possible. 

By  dint  of  questioning  she  learned  that  Flora  Kelly 
had  left  Mrs.  Mindelbaum's  and  gone  to  stay  with  a 
distant  connection  who  had  a  farm  in  Indiana. 

"She  promised  to  write  to  me,"  said  Miss  Cooper, 
"but  I've  only  had  just  a  picture  post-card  from  her 
with  'greetings'  on  it.  Well,  I  guess  the  country's  the 
best  place  for  her! "  She  sighed  despondently,  pulling 
the  tips  of  her  much-worn  gloves. 

When  she  finally  left  the  house,  Linda  went  again  to 
the  window  and  watched  her  until  she  disappeared 
down  the  street.  Amazement  at  the  chances  of  fate 
filled  the  girl's  mind  for  the  moment  to  the  rejection  of 
everything  else.  What  was  the  use  of  voluntary  plans 
when  one's  future  was  taken  out  of  one's  hands  like  this 
and  by  an  Emma  Cooper! 

As  for  Walter,  a  youthfully  intense  wrath  and  disgust 
again  got  the  better  of  her,  overcame  her  superstition 
and  her  philosophy.  What  terms  were  opprobrious 
enough  for  him?  She  even  found  time  amid  the 
clamor  of  her  personal  wrongs  for  a  desolate  thought 
of  little  Flora  Kelly.  And  she  had  been  on  the  verge 
of  marrying  Walter,  was  still — as  far  as  conventional 
obligations  held. 

But  at  least  not  an  hour  need  go  by  before  she  freed 
[  236  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

herself.  Burning  with  indignation,  with  hurt  pride 
and  a  sense  of  stained  innocence  of  mind,  Linda  hur- 
ried to  her  own  room  and  sitting  down  at  her  desk 
wrote  rapidly  eight  closely  filled  pages. 

After  reflection,  however,  she  destroyed  the  letter 
and  traced  on  a  single  sheet  a  few  short  words,  which, 
with  her  engagement  ring,  she  ultimately  despatched. 


[  237  ] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MACKLEVAINE  had  advised  a  motor-trip  as  the 
best  means  of  taking  up  Dioneme's  mind  and 
keeping  her  in  the  fresh  air,  so  after  a  month's  stay  in 
Paris  Humphrey  and  his  mother,  in  a  hired  Renault, 
started  for  Brittany.  Parker  and  the  essential  chauf- 
feur were  their  only  companions. 

It  was  June.  The  resorts  along  the  coast  had  not  yet 
been  aroused  from  their  out-of-season  paralysis,  but  a 
sober  summer  beauty  was  on  the  gray  land.  In  Brit- 
tany beauty  is  never  riotous.  One  thinks  of  it  in 
greens  and  grays  and  purples — patches  of  other  colors 
seem  exotic,  as  when  the  pine-trees,  here  and  there, 
wade  in  seas  of  yellow  broom,  or  where  flat  stretches  of 
exotically  red  clover,  the  red  of  painted  mosques  and 
Eastern  textiles,  lie  spread  out  on  the  plain.  It  did 
not  rain  much  during  the  four  weeks  Humphrey  and 
Dioneme  spent  in  the  country,  neither  did  the  sun  shine 
often.  Their  days  were  all  swift  and  almost  noiseless 
motion  over  a  flat  and  generally  featureless  land,  the 
wash  of  the  sea  in  their  ears  often,  the  clouds  scud- 
ding over  their  heads.  Occasionally  they  stopped  to 
look  at  a  cathedral,  a  provincial  museum,  some  pre- 
[  238  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

historic  remains,  or  a  row  of  quaintly  gabled  sixteenth 
century  houses  in  some  sleepy  town.  In  sight-seeing, 
however,  Dioneme  took  little  interest;  she  was  easily 
fatigued,  almost  always  absent-minded.  What  pleased 
her  most  was  to  motor  long  hours,  mostly  in  silence, 
with  the  wind  blowing  in  her  face  and  the  incidents  of 
their  route  constantly  exciting  her  fancy. 

"Humphrey!"  she  would  say  suddenly,  "see  that 
tiny  village  at  the  end  of  this  long,  long  narrow  road  ? 
Isn't  it  just  like  some  quaint  toy  tied  to  a  string!"  or 
again  she  would  call  his  attention  to  a  field  where  the 
early  planting  had  come  up  in  straight  parallel  green 
lines,  marking  the  earth  like  a  blank  music  score. 

"Summer  will  write  part  of  its  fantasia  there,"  she 
would  say — whimsically. 

A  multitude  of  conically  roofed  bee-hives  in  a  grove 
of  young  trees  made  her  think  of  the  huts  of  a  tribe  of 
savage  dwarfs  in  some  miniature  forest,  and  once  she 
talked  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  about  a  little  house  they 
passed  which  was  entirely  surrounded  by  tall,  thick 
currant  bushes.  Some  one  had  spread  a  fine  white  net 
all  over  these  bushes  and  it  looked,  Dioneme  said,  as  if 
a  gigantic  spider  had  spun  a  web  around  the  house  to 
protect  it. 

"  It  might  be  an  enchanted  house ! "  she  said. 

All  this  childishness  delighted  Humphrey.  It  meant 
his  mother  was  pleased,  diverted,  taken  out  of  herself. 
[  239  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

At  night,  when  they  stopped,  she  was  healthily  tired, 
ate  her  dinner  with  unaccustomed  appetite  and  went 
early  to  bed.  The  few  books  she  had  brought  with 
her  remained  unread.  Humphrey  and  Parker  ex- 
changed in  guarded  words  their  new  hopes  and  reas- 
surances. 

"Macklevaine  was  right,"  said  Humphrey.  "It 
was  change  she  needed — and  life  in  the  open  air." 

But  at  the  end  of  a  month  Dioneme  grew  dissatisfied. 
All  these  sea-side  places  with  their  empty  hotels  and 
silent  streets  were  depressing.  She  was  tired  of  Brit- 
tany, its  sad,  dull  peasants,  its  grayness,  its  humility, 
its  remoteness.  She  wanted  to  go  back  to  Paris,  to 
hear  laughter  again,  the  din  of  the  boulevards,  the  mid- 
night taxis  rattling  past  her  window.  "  And  I  want  to 
hear  some  ideas  expressed,"  she  said.  "  We  have  been 
living  like  the  lower  order  of  animals — nothing  but  sen- 
sations, to  eat,  to  sleep,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air!  We've 
forgotten  how  to  think!  I  believe  you're  even  getting 
fat,  Humphrey." 

But  this  was  a  delusion.  Humphrey  had  enough  on 
his  mind  to  prevent  his  caring  overmuch  for  food — 
and  as  for  sleep — it  still  often  eluded  him. 

It  was  not  only  for  his  mother  he  had  sought  a  cure 

in  Brittany.     He,  too,  wanted  forgetfulness  of  the  past, 

a  new  courage  and  strength  of  will.     In  his  own  veins 

was  also  a  poison,  insidious,  lingering  in  its  traces. 

[  240  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

There  were  times  when  he  despaired,  youthfully,  of 
ever  ridding  himself  of  this  bane.  Again  he  called  it 
by  other  names,  it  became  his  intoxicant,  his  divine 
stimulation.  Even  without  hope  his  feeling  for  Lin- 
da was  the  one  supreme  thing.  At  such  times — for 
Humphrey,  considered  by  her  as  matter-of-fact,  was 
not  the  child  of  his  mother  for  nothing — he  set  his  love, 
as  it  were,  in  a  silver  shrine  and  his  thoughts  went  tow- 
ard it  ceaselessly,  like  pilgrims  with  their  hands  full  of 
flowers. 

Sometimes  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  conviction 
that  in  spite  of  everything  Linda  belonged  to  him,  was 
his,  chosen  by  the  gods,  eternally  sealed.  What  mat- 
tered absence,  time,  her  marriage  to  another,  life  itself 
— in  the  face  of  these  certainties.  In  such  moods  he 
felt  as  if  between  his  soul  and  hers  there  was  always 
flowing  a  stream  of  uncontrolled  and  intimate  thought. 
Often  this  stream  reflected  the  very  blue  of  heaven 
and  was  strewn  with  stars,  then  again  its  surface  was 
ice-bound,  waiting  for  an  awakening  sun. 

He  would  rouse  himself  from  these  reveries  perhaps 
to  curse  his  imagination  and  resolve,  once  and  for  all, 
to  put  Linda  out  of  his  mind. 

In  July  Paris  was  warm  and  uncomfortable  and 
Dioneme  grew  worse. 

Parker,  too,  was  nervous,  almost  irritable,  unlike  her- 
self. She  conveyed  to  Humphrey  her  feeling  that  hers 
[  241  ]  ' 


THE   MOON  LADY 

was  a  most  trying  and  difficult  position,  and  he  again 
raised  her  wages.  It  became  necessary  to  be  with 
Dioneme  constantly,  and  once  or  twice  Humphrey 
even  contemplated  calling  in  a  physician — a  thing  he 
shrank  from. 

One  night  when  Dioneme  had  gone  to  bed  early  and 
was  apparently  asleep  he  went  out  and  strolled  aim- 
lessly down  the  Rue  de  Castiglione.  It  was  eight 
o'clock,  the  street  was  almost  deserted.  Under  the 
arcades  the  shadows  were  growing  deeper,  and  the  bars 
were  up  in  front  of  all  the  shop  windows.  An  un- 
speakable dreariness  of  heat  lay  like  a  miasma  over 
the  city. 

Humphrey  felt  that  his  feet  dragged  heavily  as  he 
walked;  he  breathed  in  a  fine  dust  with  every  respira- 
tion. 

"  What  wouldn't  I  give  now  for  a  good  swim  in  the 
sea!"  he  thought.  His  muscles  hardened  at  the  idea. 
He  imagined  himself  cutting  his  way  through  cold 
salt  water,  his  eyes  full  of  spray. 

Just  then  he  saw  a  figure  coming  toward  him  in  the 
dimness  of  the  arcades.  There  was  something  familiar 
about  it!  By  Jove — it  was  old  Norris!  What  on 
earth ! 

"Thought  I'd  surprise  you,"  said  Peters,  calmly 
when  they  had  grasped  hands.  "Landed  this  morn- 
ing— Cherbourg.  How  are  things  with  you,  old  man  ?  " 
[  242  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  cried  Humphrey,  after  their  first 
greetings  were  over.  "Have  you  dined?  Why  not 
dine  together  in  the  Ritz  garden  ?  " 

Peters  agreed — and  they  turned  back  and  walked 
around  the  Place  Vendome  to  the  hotel.  The  garden 
terrace  even  at  that  season  was  full  of  well-dressed,  lan- 
guid people  seated  at  small  tables  chatting  in  a  desul- 
tory way,  eating  capriciously,  listening  now  and  then 
to  the  Hungarian  musicians,  whose  leader,  fat  and  in- 
different after  many  years  of  hotel  service,  played 
American  rag-time  with  scornful  skill. 

Humphrey  and  Peters  bowed  to  some  acquaintances 
at  one  of  the  tables  and  found  a  place  for  themselves  at 
the  end  of  the  terrace  nearest  the  fountain.  There  they 
heard  a  faint  trickle  of  water  and  the  perfume  of  helio- 
trope came  to  them  from  a  garden-bed.  Behind  the 
high  wall  of  this  tiny  and  coquettish  garden  showed  the 
great  trees  of  the  garden  beyond.  One  might  have  im- 
agined oneself  anywhere  but  in  the  centre  of  a  great  city. 

"  And  to  think  how  the  trolleys  are  rattling  up  Broad- 
way," exclaimed  Peters,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  How  is  business  ?  "  asked  Humphrey,  and  listened 
attentively  while  his  friend  told  him  all  that  had  been 
done  on  the  Michigan  medical  college  and  of  the  de- 
signs he  was  making  for  a  competition  for  the  construc- 
tion of  a  new  State  building  at  Washington. 

"We  are  also  building  a  household  storage  ware- 
[  243  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

house  for  the  Zimmerman  Company,"  said  Peters,  and 
he  and  Humphrey  fell  into  a  discussion  as  to  the  value 
of  steel  frame  structures  with  tile  or  concrete  insulating 
properties  compared  with  a  re-enforced  concrete  con- 
struction, which  was  absorbing  to  them,  but  of  little 
general  interest. 

"  Qu'ils  sont  droles — les  Americains ! "  observed  a 
Nattier-like  blonde  near  them,  who  tried  vainly  with 
the  most  discreet  and  artistic  ingenuity  and  through 
the  entire  course  of  dinner  to  attract  their  attention. 
"  Of  what  are  they  talking  ?  " 

"Of  everything — except  the  little  ladies,"  said  her 
neighbor  at  table — also  French. 

From  their  profession  Humphrey  and  Peters  drifted 
to  politics  and  considered,  though  with  less  ardor,  the 
revolt  against  Clark,  candidate  for  the  New  York  State 
Senate  of  the  Tammany  leader,  and  the  possible  nomi- 
nation of  a  compromise  candidate. 

"  For  me — it's  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  O'Brien," 
said  Peters  (O'Brien  being  the  Tammany  leader.) 
"He's  been  pulling  every  wire  he  could  lay  his  dirty 
hands  on  to  bring  the  insurgents  to  terms — but  it's  no 
use."  He  spoke  with  languid  interest.  The  mood  of 
a  summer  night  in  Paris  was  beginning  to  steal  upon 
him.  For  the  first  time  he  perceived  consciously  the 
Nattier-like  blonde  and  the  beauty  of  her  round  white 
throat. 

[  244  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Over  their  coffee  he  and  Humphrey  fell  into  silence, 
while  the  leader  of  the  Hungarian  musicians  played 
with  accentuated  sentimentality  a  Viennese  waltz. 

"So  your  mother  is  really  better,"  said  Peters.  He 
had  asked  after  her  at  the  moment  of  their  meeting. 

"  Yes — but  this  heat  is  bad  for  her.  We're  going  to 
Switzerland  next  week  to  sit  on  a  mountain." 

"That's  a  good  plan,"  assented  Peters.  "I  wish  I 
could  join  you  there — but  I've  got  to  go  to  Germany,  as 
you  know,  and  must  be  back  in  New  York  by  the  first 
of  August." 

Here  the  Nattier  lady  rose  to  depart,  bending  with  a 
swan-like  motion  to  submerge  herself  in  the  floating 
mass  of  vaporous  blue  which  symbolized  her  evening 
cloak.  The  two  men  followed  her  with  their  eyes  until 
she  disappeared  through  an  open  door  of  the  hotel  cor- 
ridor. 

"Good-looking  woman,"  Peters  observed;  "nice 
throat. " 

"Ugly  feet,"  objected  Humphrey,  and  the  subject 
dropped. 

Little  by  little  the  crowd  thinned,  the  air  grew  cooler, 
and  the  moon  rose  high  in  the  sky.  Only  a  few  people 
lingered  over  their  liqueurs  and  cigarettes  and  with  the 
lengthening  night  a  greater  beauty  fell  upon  the  garden. 
Now  the  violins  made  themselves  heard  with  more  in- 
sistence. The  leader  forgot  his  ennui  and  disdain  and 
[245] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

falling  into  a  nightingale  mood  put  into  his  music  some- 
thing of  impulsive  passion  and  the  rapture  of  the  night, 

After  a  time  this,  too,  ceased.  The  musicians  de- 
parted with  their  instruments.  The  last  diner  van- 
ished. Humphrey  and  Peters  were  left  alone  in  the 
garden.  The  plashing  of  the  fountain  was  more  aud- 
ible now.  They  could  even  hear  the  soft  whirring 
wings  of  a  night  moth  hovering  near  them. 

"I  heard  a  piece  of  news  just  before  I  left  New 
York,"  said  Peters,  after  a  while.  "  Walter  Jackson's 
engagement  to  Miss  Arnold  has  been  broken  off." 

It  was  so  long  before  Humphrey  answered  that  the 
other  was  uneasy.  Finally  he  asked  in  what  seemed  a 
perfectly  natural  voice : 

"Who  told  you?" 

"A  friend  of  Jackson's — man  named  Henderson — 
there's  no  doubt  about  its  truth — but  nobody  knows 
the  reason — that  is  if  Jackson  himself  wasn't  reason 
enough." 

"Well,"  said  Humphrey,  "I'm  glad  she's  not  going 
to  marry  a  cad." 

He  tried  to  suppress  the  joy  rising  in  him  at  Norris's 
news.  What  if  Linda  was  indeed  free?  She  was  as 
far  removed  from  him  as  ever.  He  was  contemptible 
even  in  her  eyes.  Between  them  were  endless,  insur- 
mountable walls.  Even  if  she  could  ever  be  brought 
to  trust  him  entirely  and  without  question,  he  himself 
[  246  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

was  more  bound  than  ever.  There  was  his  mother — 
and  now  something  formless  and  dark  took  the  irre- 
sistible joy  by  the  throat.  No — there  was  no  room  for 
exaltation. 

But  the  night  was  beautiful !  It  was  good  to  see  old 
Peters  again — surprisingly  good!  He  wondered  how 
much  his  friend  understood.  There  had  never  been 
a  great  deal  said  between  them  that  Humphrey  could 
recollect.  Yet  he  had  always  seemed  to  know  every- 
thing. He  remembered  that  there  had  been  times  when 
he  had  come  near  to  resenting  even  this  silent,  intimate 
appreciation  of  all  that  was  troubling  him.  Now  such 
sympathy  had  become  acceptable — more — of  great 
value. 

In  Anglo-Saxon  muteness,  but  bound  by  a  vibrant 
tie  of  friendship,  he  and  Peters  sat  and  smoked. 


[  247  ] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  hotel  where  Humphrey  took  his  mother 
stood  with  its  terraced  garden  and  its  little  col- 
ony of  smaller  buildings  on  the  side  of  a  mountain 
which  rose  above  Lake  Geneva. 

It  was  as  if  the  whole  picturesquely  decked-out  set- 
tlement leaned  from  its  high-swung  place  to  gaze, 
Juliet-like,  on  its  lover,  the  town,  far  below  on  the  shore 
of  the  lake. 

The  windows  of  the  hotel  looked  out  over  wide  shim- 
mering spaces  of  water  to  blue  mountain  heights. 
Each  room  had  its  balcony  fastened  like  a  swallow's 
nest  to  a  wall,  and  from  these  balconies  and  the  gar- 
den below  came  an  intermittent  chatter  in  many  strange 
languages,  light  laughter,  twittering  children's  voices, 
and  sometimes  a  burst  of  unpremeditated  song,  so  that 
the  hotel  seemed,  Dioneme  said,  like  some  vast  bird- 
cote,  high-hung,  resounding  with  volatile  life. 

She  was  at  first  happier  here  than  Humphrey  had 
seen  her  in  a  long  time,  planned  a  new  story,  and  in  the 
afternoon  took  walks  with  him  in  the  woods.  She 
rarely  appeared  before  lunch  and  did  not  like  to  be  dis- 
turbed, so  he  had  the  mornings  to  himself,  mornings  of 
[248] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

glorious  early  climbing  toward  the  heights,  or  hawk- 
like dips  into  the  valley.  When  he  started  out  in  the 
dew  and  sunshine  of  the  hours  soon  after  dawn,  all  that 
was  not  of  the  instant  dropped  away  from  him.  He 
was  conscious  only  of  the  glory  of  the  world,  and  of  the 
strength  and  perfection  for  service  of  his  own  body. 
He  took  possession  of  it,  as  a  man  might  seat  himself  at 
the  steering  wheel  of  a  perfectly  constructed  car,  know- 
ing he  could  count  on  endurance  and  speed  and  safety; 
that  he  could  climb  with  the  stoutest,  compete  with  the 
most  daring;  that  he  was  young,  fearless,  not  to  be  out- 
done. 

One  morning  he  left  the  hotel  at  six.  At  first  fog  lay 
about  him,  soft,  dense,  and  all-enveloping;  then  it 
lifted,  the  sun  came  out  and  peeled  the  shadow  off  the 
mountain  in  front  of  him  as  rind  is  peeled  from  fruit. 

From  the  hill-side  where  he  stood  he  looked  down 
into  a  deep  gorge  and  seemed  to  see  the  very  roots  of 
the  mountain,  black  and  elemental,  then  up,  up,  to  its 
dazzling  summit,  snow-topped,  gleaming  against  the 
blue.  It  unrolled  before  him  like  a  splendid  symphony, 
awful  almost  in  the  deafening  crash  of  its  mystery  and 
power,  the  ineffableness  of  its  beauty.  But  youth  and 
the  joy  of  living  were  strong  in  Humphrey,  he  felt  little 
of  either  reverence  or  fear. 

"Sometime  I  will  have  a  try  at  that,"  he  thought 
nonchalantly. 

[  249  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Just  then,  though,  he  was  bound  for  the  valley,  hav- 
ing a  commission  for  his  mother  in  the  little  town. 

Soon  he  left  the  high  levels  where  the  fields  were 
thick  with  flowers  (blue,  for  the  most  part,  as  if,  so  near 
the  sky,  they  had  caught  its  color)  and  where  the  fine 
thin  air,  chilly  from  the  night,  smelt  of  mint  and 
thyme  and  clover.  The  path  led  for  a  while  down 
through  pine  woods,  sombre  and  sweet,  then  through 
fields  again,  where  he  was  joined  by  a  little  white  goat 
with  neat  black  hoofs  and  a  soft,  twitching  nose,  which 
she  kept  poking  in  his  hand,  bleating  feebly. 

Deserted  after  a  time  by  this  engaging  companion, 
he  fell  in,  further  on,  with  a  possible  male  relative  of 
hers,  who  reared  itself  in  Humphrey's  path,  plastered 
with  slime,  reeking  with  strong  goat  odors,  its  mali- 
cious head  crowned  with  large  horns,  a  very  symbol 
of  Satan. 

The  intentions  of  this  apparition  being  evidently 
friendly — too  friendly — Humphrey  discouraged  it  with 
a  small  stone,  well  aimed,  and  was  enabled  to  go  on  his 
way  unaccompanied. 

Now  the  grassy  slope  of  the  entire  side  of  the  moun- 
tain lay  in  soft  doublings  and  creases  like  the  splendid 
green-velvet  folds  of  a  spreading  court  train.  The  air 
grew  warmer  as  he  descended.  He  passed  cottages 
where  round-eyed  children  played  in  the  sun  and  slat- 
ternly women  were  busy  with  morning  industries. 
[  250  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

Here  and  there  a  chalet  coquettishly  garlanded  with 
roses  began  to  show  among  the  trees.  A  dog  barked 
at  him;  once  he  had  to  step  aside  (being  now  on  the 
high  road)  to  let  a  motor-car  whiz  past.  Signs  of  a 
town  multiplied;  the  uplands  seemed  far  away  indeed. 

Raising  his  eyes,  Humphrey  could  see  his  hotel,  aston- 
ishingly remote,  perched  on  the  heights.  A  little  of 
his  early  chanticleer  mood  left  him.  He  felt  warm 
and  hungry  and  resolved  to  stop  at  an  unpretentious 
hotel  he  knew  of  a  little  farther  on  to  get  a  cup  of 
coffee. 

Once  seated  in  the  lattice-enclosed  veranda  of  the 
Hotel  du  Soleil  before  a  round  table  covered  with  a 
doubtfully  clean  red  and  white  linen  cloth,  he  took  off 
his  cap  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  mopped  his  hot  fore- 
head. 

"  I  must  have  made  pretty  good  time  down  that  hill ! " 
he  said  to  himself,  and  fell  into  elaborate  calculations 
of  metres  turned  into  miles. 

A  waiter  as  hot,  greasy,  and  unctuous  in  manner 
as  if  he  had  issued  from  one  of  the  Hotel  du  Soleil's 
large  soup  pots,  the  incarnation  of  its  mixed  and 
doubtful  contents,  appeared  and  took  Humphrey's 
order. 

"Mind  you  have  the  milk  hot,noi  boiled,"  he  directed, 
"  and  strained,  so  there  won't  be  any  skim  on  top  of  it." 
The  presentation  of  this  desire  in  French  was  of  the 
[  251  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

utmost  difficulty  and  took  time,  but  Humphrey  was 
fastidious  about  hot  milk  and  had  patience  until  he  was 
comprehended. 

While  he  waited  for  his  cafe  au  lait  a  small  gray  kitten 
came,  mewing,  and  rubbed  itself  against  his  feet. 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Humphrey  with  a  boyish  im- 
pulse, "I'll  take  this  home  to  mother.  It  will  amuse 
her,"  and  he  tucked  the  little  scraggy  creature  inside 
his  coat,  where  it  began  to  purr  contentedly  and  weave 
his  shirt  with  its  veiled  claws. 

Later  he  gave  it  a  drink  of  milk  from  his  saucer,  paid 
the  proprietoi  of  the  hotel  two  francs  to  part  with  it, 
and  so  became  its  master — to  his  own  mind,  at  least. 
It  is  doubtful  if  a  cat  ever  acknowledges  to  itself  any 
master. 

Dioneme  was  delighted  with  this  offering  and  made 
arrangements  for  its  comforts  and  conveniences  with 
great  zest. 

"I  shall  call  it  'Mimi,'"  she  said,  "'pourquoi — je 
ne  saisl' — but  Mimi  is  a  good  cat  name.  You  know,  all 
the  morning,  I've  felt  curiously  excited.  Now  I  know 
why.  It  was  because  this  funny  little  bit  of  life  was 
coming  toward  me.  I  was  going  to  have  a  cat!" 

Humphrey  laughed,  much  amused. 

If  his  mother  had  only  showed  more  signs  of  im- 
provement he  woulol  have  been  fairly  happy  in  these 
days.  But  Dioneme  grew  unaccountably  worse  instead 
[252  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

of  better.  Her  good  spirits,  little  by  little,  became 
more  varying  and  uncertain;  she  was  sometimes  irri- 
table, sometimes  morose,  coughed  a  little  still,  and 
seemed  to  prefer  being  alone  under  one  pretext  or  an- 
other most  of  the  time.  As  for  her  writing,  it  had  been 
almost  definitely  laid  aside,  though  she  talked,  occa- 
sionally, of  a  new  novel. 

One  day  it  occurred  to  Humphrey  that  his  mother's 
face  had  changed.  In  spite  of  its  thinness  it  appeared 
swollen  in  places,  the  skin  about  the  eyes  was  dis- 
colored, and  her  splendid  red  hair,  too,  looked  dull 
and  faded.  He  tried  to  talk  with  Parker,  but  it  was 
hard  to  get  hold  of  the  woman;  she  seemed  to  evade 
him.  Probably  she,  as  well  as  he,  dreaded  these  inter- 
views, where  so  much  that  was  usually  decently  hidden 
had  to  be  dragged  nakedly  between  them. 

Once  Humphrey  found  his  mother,  with  bowed  head, 
gloating  over  a  picture  of  herself  at  eighteen  which  she 
held  in  her  hand.  He  turned  away  hastily,  shocked 
at  the  revelation  of  that  most  sterile  and  pathetic  of 
passions — the  passion  of  a  woman  for  her  own  eternally 
vanished  beauty.  Yet  this  with  Dioneme  was,  like  other 
emotions,  only  a  mood  and  would  pass. 

Humphrey  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Dr.  Mackelvaine 
about  his  mother's  condition  and  waited  anxiously  for 
a  reply.  It  was  long  in  coming,  necessarily,  and  he  al- 
most made  up  his  mind  to  consult  the  doctor  resident 
[253] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

in  the  hotel.  Dioneme  had  given  up  her  daily  walk 
and  spent  her  afternoons  lying  in  a  long  chair  on  the 
balcony.  One  day  while  Humphrey  was  reading 
aloud  to  her  they  heard  the  kitten  mewing  in  the  room 
behind  them. 

"What  does  she  want?"  asked  Humphrey.  "Is 
she  hungry  ?  " 

"Perhaps;  call  Parker  to  get  her  some  milk." 

"I'll  get  it;  where  is  it?" 

"In  a  jar,  outside  the  inner  door,  and  her  saucer  is 
in  the  bath  room — a  little  pink  saucer." 

Humphrey  found  the  milk  and  started,  the  kitten  at 
his  heels,  to  look  for  the  saucer.  It  was  not  in  sight, 
so  he  opened  various  cupboard  doors,  but  to  no  avail. 
Finally  he  noticed  a  small,  square  door  curiously  placed 
in  the  low  wainscoting,  half  hidden  by  a  table. 

"  What's  that  little  place!"  said  Humphrey  to  him- 
self. "Perhaps  it's  there." 

He  moved  the  table  and  opened  the  low  door. 

"  Nothing  but  a  hole  in  the  wall,"  he  thought,  then — 
"  What  in  the  name  of  heaven — ! "  He  bent  over  to 
look  more  closely  and  gave  a  sharp  exclamation,  quickly 
suppressed.  This  row  of  dark  empty  bottles,  hidden 
away,  loathsome  in  their  suggestiveness,  meant  one 
more  step  in  his  mother's  degradation.  How  had  she 
found  the  means  of  eluding  him!  There  was  only  one 
way;  Parker  had  been  bought — had  betrayed  him.  He 
[  254  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

stood  for  a  moment  as  if  stupefied,  incapable  of  further 
reflection,  and  during  that  moment  his  surroundings, 
commonplace  as  they  were,  fixed  themselves  visually 
on  his  brain  with  a  hideous  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
significance.  At  last  he  became  aware  of  the  con- 
tinued mewing  of  the  kitten.  He  closed  the  small  low 
door,  pushed  the  table  against  it  once  more,  and  went 
back  to  his  mother. 

His  face  was  perfectly  white.  He  was  partly  con- 
scious of  it,  and  lest  she  should  notice  some  change  in 
him  he  stood  a  little  back  of  her  so  that  he  could  not  be 
seen. 

"I  can't  find  the  kitten's  saucer,"  he  said.  "You'll 
have  to  send  for  Parker,  after  all." 

"Very  well,"  assented  Dioneme;  "ring  the  bell, 
please." 

In  the  tranquil  unconcern  of  her  voice  there  was 
nothing  to  Humphrey  but  a  mockery  of  him  and  his 
would-be  protection  of  her.  He  felt  he  could  not  trust 
himself  to  stay  with  his  mother  just  then.  Even  his 
pity  for  her  had  lost  its  usual  restraining  power. 

"  When  Parker  comes  tell  her  I  want  to  speak  to  her 
in  my  room,"  he  said,  adding,  in  an  explanatory  way, 
"  she  hasn't  had  her  wages  this  month " ;  and  he  went 
out  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

When  the  maid  came  to  him,  ten  minutes  later,  she 
found  him  sitting  at  his  writing-table,  looking  much 
[  255  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

less    boyish   than    usual,    with    something   curiously 
formal,  not  to  say  judicial,  in  his  attitude. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  sir  ?  "  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  in  looking  about 
Mrs.  Wylde's  rooms  to-day  I  came  upon  unmistakable 
signs  that  she  has  found  the  means  of  deceiving  me,  of 
getting  secretly  the  stuff  that,  as  you  know,  is  poison 
for  her." 

The  Englishwoman  raised  her  head,  suddenly  de- 
fiant, and  Humphrey  saw  in  her  eyes,  free  of  dissimu- 
lation, a  spark  of  that  fierce  class  hatred  which  until 
now  he  had  never  been  personally  conscious  of.  It 
existed,  then,  this  dislike  and  ill-will,  merely  because 
one  was  master  and  the  other  servant.  It  lurked  in 
the  dark,  cunningly  hiding  itself  behind  a  show  of  re- 
spect and  devotion,  betraying  at  the  end  all  the  ties  of 
association,  of  gratitude  and  trust. 

An  instant,  and  Parker's  gaze  dropped.  She  re- 
sumed her  usual  manner,  though  there  was  a  shade  of 
almost  insolent  unconcern  in  her  voice  as  she  said : 

"  There's  no  use,  sir.  Better  give  it  to  her  and  let 
her  be  happy.  There's  no  help  for  them  when  they  are 
as  bad  as  that." 

"  You  admit  it  was  you  who  got  it  for  her  ? " 

"I  was  wore  out,  sir,  and  she  begged  so.  She's 
always  been  very  kind  to  me,  poor  lady." 

"Bribed,  of  course,"  said  Humphrey  sombrely. 
[  256  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

He  reflected  a  moment  while  the  maid  stood  pas- 
sively hostile. 

"You  are  an  untrustworthy  woman,  Parker,"  he 
said  at  length,  "  and  a  bad  servant.  I  am  sending  to- 
day for  a  trained  nurse  and  Mrs.  Wylde  shall  be  put 
under  her  care  at  once.  As  soon  as  this  person  ar- 
rives you  will  start  for  Paris." 

"I  suppose  you  know  you're  obliged  by  the  law  to 
give  me  my  passage  back  to  New  York,"  she  remarked 
viciously.  "I  was  engaged  there." 

All  at  once,  with  no  warning,  her  face  began  to  work 
curiously  and  she  burst  into  a  storm  of  weak  and  angry 
tears.  Between  her  sobs  came  loud  vociferation;  de- 
nials, regret,  and  pleas  for  pardon.  In  her  hysteria 
she  scrubbed  her  coarsely  reddened  face  incessantly 
with  a  handkerchief  rolled  into  a  hard  ball. 

Humphrey,  who  had  been  momentarily  disturbed 
by  the  menace  of  her  former  attitude,  now  perceived 
that  she  was  merely  ignorant  and  lacking  in  moral 
perception,  driven  by  cupidity  to  the  coward's  road  of 
deceit. 

But  he  was  sick  at  his  own  disappointment  in  her. 
She  had  been  his  one  ally. 

Left  alone,  he  faced  the  situation  with  an  attempt  at 
confidence. 

"  It  will  be  better  to  have  a  nurse,  anyway,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  I  should  have  had  one  long  ago.  After 
[257] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

all,  my  eyes  are  open,  and  that's  so  much  the  better — 
I  know  what  I'm  doing  now. " 

The  rest  of  the  day  he  was  busy  making  plans,  tele- 
phoning to  Lausanne  about  the  nurse,  looking  up 
trains,  consulting  the  resident  hotel  doctor,  arranging 
for  the  visit  of  another  more  celebrated.  Action  left 
him  little  time  for  thought. 

But  when  night  came  he  found  he  could  not  sleep. 
For  hours  he  lay  turning  feverishly  from  side  to  side, 
thumping  his  pillow  into  one  uncomfortable  shape 
after  another.  Finally,  tormented  beyond  endurance, 
he  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Drawing  back  the 
curtain  he  stepped  out  on  the  balcony.  It  was  three 
o'clock  and  the  chilly,  almost  sinister,  silence  of  the 
hours  after  midnight  enveloped  the  visible  world. 

The  wall  of  mountains  on  the  farther  shore  of  the 
lake  loomed  up  in  shadow,  mysterious  and  lonely. 
Just  above,  a  reddish  moon,  old  and  waning,  risen 
late,  was  already  sinking  down  toward  a  far  horizon. 
In  its  disturbed  beauty,  its  ravaged  perfection,  there 
was  something  malign  and  inauspicious. 

It  seemed  well  to  Humphrey  that  there  was  no  one 
but  himself  to  look  upon  it. 

Suddenly  his  thought  went  back  to  Dioneme,     Had 

not  his  father  called  her  the  Moon  Lady! — But  Morris 

Wylde's  fancy  must  have  been  of  some  slender  crescent 

gleaming,  virginal  and  remote,  in  the  purple  twilight 

[  258  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

of  spring,  or,  it  may  have  been  of  a  fuller  and  more 
rounded  glory,  white  fire  on  midsummer  nights. 

He,  thank  God!  had  never  dreamed  of  a  moon  like 
this — this  wan  and  evil  planet  tottering  down  the  sky. 


[  259  ] 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHAT  passed  between  his  mother  and  Parker 
after  his  interview  with  the  latter  Humphrey 
never  knew.  When  he  spoke  of  the  necessity  of  send- 
ing the  maid  away  and  of  his  plan  for  installing  a 
trained  nurse  in  her  place,  Dioneme  turned  abruptly 
from  him — she  was  lying  as  usual  on  the  balcony — and 
hid  her  face.  There  was  to  him  a  new  and  pitiable 
abjectness  in  this  gesture.  When  she  spoke  it  seemed 
to  be  with  difficulty,  as  if  she  struggled  against  a  con- 
traction in  her  throat.  It  was  the  first  and  only  time 
Humphrey  ever  saw  her  give  any  outward  evidence  of 
the  torment  from  which,  intermittently  at  least,  she 
must  have  suffered,  the  one  occasion  when  he  per- 
ceived that  her  vice  was  recognized  as  a  part  of  her, 
something  for  which  she  was  responsible. 

"  Humphrey,"  she  said  brokenly,  "  you  must  judge 
me  by  what  I  am  and  not  by  what  I  do." 

"  Don't  think  I  judge  you,  mother!" 

A  fit  of  coughing  seized  Dioneme.     When  it  was  over 
she  said: 

"You  are  right  about  the  nurse.     I  am  not  really 
well.     You  must  treat  me  as  if  I  were  not  well,  Hum- 
phrey.    I  seem  to  have  no  will." 
[  260  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"Don't  talk  about  it,  please,"  said  Humphrey.  "I 
understand." 

But  though  he  spoke  in  this  way  he  was,  in  fact, 
very  far  from  suspecting  the  truth  of  Dioneme's  phys- 
ical condition.  Her  weakness  of  body  had  increased 
so  gradually  that  he  did  not  realize  how  much  she  had 
changed.  What  difference  he  saw  in  her  he  put  down, 
despairingly,  to  her  secret  infirmity,  not  to  the  disease 
with  which  it  went  hand  in  hand. 

When  the  nurse  arrived  from  Lausanne,  a  lean, 
brown-faced  Canadian  with  an  agreeable  smile,  Dio- 
neme's life  was  reorganized  on  an  openly  sick-room 
basis. 

Humphrey  was  left  with  more  time  on  his  hands, 
found  himself  obliged  to  lunch  in  the  restaurant  often 
instead  of  in  his  mother's  sitting-room,  and  so  began  to 
be  more  remarked  in  the  hotel.  Nervous  fellow- 
guests,  always  in  dread  of  contagion,  made  inquiries 
as  to  the  nature  of  Dioneme's  illness  and  were  far  from 
satisfied  with  the  explanation  of  the  director  of  the 
hotel  who  pronounced  it  nervous  prostration. 

"I  am  sure  I  heard  her  cough,"  said  one  bangle- 
bedecked  British  spinster  to  another.  "  One  is  never 
free  from  those  things  now  in  mountain  resorts.  Soon 
there  will  be  no  safe  places  left." 

This  uneasiness  seemed,  indeed,  to  lurk  always  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Splendide  Hotel  like  a  breath 
[261  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

of  unhealthy  air.  New-comers  were  given  a  searching 
scrutiny  and  any  young  person  who  seemed  too  thin, 
with  flushed  cheeks  and  over-brilliant  eyes,  was  im- 
mediately under  suspicion. 

Humphrey,  however,  was  unconscious  of  all  this. 
If  he  studied  the  people  around  him  it  was  from  mere 
idle  curiosity  and  because  he  had  little  else  to  do. 
There  were  many  fellow-guests,  gay  and  energetic, 
coming  and  going,  playing  tennis,  mountain-climbing, 
dancing  at  night  in  the  vast,  gaudy  ball-room.  Some- 
times Humphrey  fell  into  casual  talk  with  one  or 
another  and  suggestions  were  thrown  out  that  he  should 
join  them  in  these  diversions,  but  he  always  refused, 
giving  his  mother's  illness  as  an  excuse. 

The  women  at  least  regretted  this.  There  was  one 
tall  brunette,  with  a  mouth  which  looked  as  if  it  had 
known  countless  kisses  and  longed  for  more,  who  often 
darted  sly,  swallow-like  glances  at  him  as  he  passed. 

But  sport  tempted  him  more  than  beauty.  Once  on 
the  hill-side  he  came  upon  a  group  of  young  men 
shooting  clay  pigeons.  The  director  of  the  hotel,  a 
stout,  eternally  frock-coated,  polyglot  German,  fussy 
and  energetic,  was  keeping  score,  and  some  girls  in 
knitted  woollen  coats  with  caps  to  match  watched  from 
a  board  shelter. 

On  an  impulse,  urged  by  the  effusive  German, 
Humphrey  joined  the  contestants.  As  he  lifted  a  gun 
[  262  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

to  his  shoulder  the  young  Frenchmen  and  Spaniards 
stood  about  him,  courteous,  but  with  a  suggestion  of 
veiled  mockery. 

"Ready!"  cried  Humphrey  and  the  two  clay  balls 
flew  out  from  the  trap  under  the  edge  of  the  hill. 

"One!  two!" — both  birds  fell.  This  was  repeated 
several  times.  Humphrey,  to  his  secret  pride,  did 
not  miss  a  shot.  When  his  turn  was  over  there  was  a 
murmur  of  applause  mingled  it  would  seem  with  a 
certain  astonishment. 

"Vive  VAmerique!"  shouted  a  fat  little  Parisian, 
throwing  his  cap  in  the  air. 

The  contagion  of  the  sport  seized  upon  Humphrey. 
He  stayed  and  shot  clay  pigeons  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  At  the  end  his  score  stood  the  best. 

"L'Americain  gagne,"  said  a  Spaniard,  who  had 
made  the  next  best  record,  laughing,  a  friendly  soul 
even  in  defeat. 

Humphrey,  warm  with  the  flush  of  triumph  and  the 
unaccustomed  pleasure  of  good-fellowship,  walked 
back  to  the  hotel  with  all  these  gay  young  people. 

The  early  evening  air  was  cool  and  crisp  and  ex- 
hilarating. As  he  bounded  upstairs  to  his  mother's 
room  after  leaving  his  companions  he  hummed  a  lit- 
tle tune. 

But  he  found  that  Dioneme  had  been  lonely,  missed 
him  during  his  unusual  absence  at  the  tea  hour.  On 
[  263  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

the  table,  too,  lay  the  long-expected  letter  from  Dr. 
Macklevaine. 

The  boyish  look  faded  from  Humphrey's  face  as  he 
opened  it.  Yes,  it  was  as  he  had  expected.  Mackle- 
vaine advised  that  his  mother  be  taken  home,  pro- 
vided that  a  certain  doctor  at  Ouchy  should  advise  it 
after  examination  and  with  a  complete  knowledge  of 
the  case. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  back  to  New  York, 
mother  ?  "  asked  Humphrey  that  evening. 

"  Now — do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Dioneme  vaguely. 

"  Yes — or  as  soon  as  you  could  get  ready." 

"  How  long  have  we  been  away  ?  " 

"Nearly  five  months." 

Dioneme  sighed. 

"So  long! — I  thought  I  should  have  had  my  new 
book  more  than  half  written  by  now.  I  feel,  somehow, 
as  if  this  year  had  had  a  crack  in  it  and  time  had  all 
leaked  away." 

"  But  about  going  home  ?  "  asked  Humphrey  again. 

"Yes — let  us  go  home!  One  is  so  comfortable  in 
one's  own  bed.  Will  Miss  Kingston  go  with  us  ?  " 

Miss  Kingston  was  the  nurse. 

"  Of  course.  You've  made  a  conquest  of  her.  She 
says  she  would  go  anywhere  with  you." 

"One  makes  many  conquests  by  being  pitiable!" 
observed  Dioneme.  "So  many  people  enjoy  being 
[  264  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

sorry  for  one — I  used  to  have  a  less  abject  way  of 
winning  favor." 

She  gazed  dreamily  down  toward  the  valley  where 
far  below  them  twinkled  myriad  lights,  looking  in 
the  cloudy  night  like  diamonds  spread  out  on  black 
velvet.  Humphrey  wondered  what  she  was  thinking 
of.  Since  he  had  known  of  her  long-practised  deceit, 
there  had  come,  in  spite  of  himself,  an  increased  mental 
alienation  between  him  and  his  mother  which,  strange 
to  say,  did  not  materially  lessen  his  affection  for  her 
nor  her  persistent  charm  for  him.  But  less  than  ever 
could  he  understand  her  unfettered,  every-varying 
point  of  view. 

Of  late  there  had  been  added  to  this  native  elusive- 
ness  the  invalid's  lack  of  a  sense  of  the  values  of  out- 
side things. 

The  world,  never  very  personally  important  to 
Dioneme,  had  narrowed,  little  by  little,  to  the  con- 
fines of  her  own  room.  Of  her  bodily  state  there 
could  be  no  question  at  the  present  moment.  She  was 
alarmingly  weak.  There  was  even  a  doubt  in  Hum- 
phrey's mind  whether  she  would  be  able  to  stand  with 
safety  the  fatigues  of  the  journey  home,  but  Miss 
Kingston  assured  him  that  the  trip  might  be  of 
benefit. 

This  was  also  the  opinion  of  the  doctor  from  Ouchy 
when  he  was  consulted. 

[  265  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Better  for  her  to  be  under  the  care  of  some  one 
who  has  studied  her  case  from  the  first,"  he  said 
gruffly,  but  observing  Dioneme  with  unusual  interest, 
as  most  people  did. 

Humphrey  had  concealed  nothing  from  him.  It 
would  indeed  have  been  useless  to  try. 

The  doctor  had  come  to  the  isolated  hotel  half  under 
protest,  crawling  up  the  hill  in  the  snorting  funicular 
.with  curses  on  the  heads  of  spoiled  Americans  who 
insisted  on  having  everything  come  to  them.  But 
when  he  saw  his  patient  he  did  not  altogether  regret 
the  enforced  expedition.  From  a  psychological  stand- 
point, if  from  no  other,  she  was  interesting.  And  he 
had  been  told  that  she  was  a  well-known  writer.  He 
lingered  longer  than  was  strictly  necessary  beside 
Dioneme's  chair  on  the  balcony,  talking  with  her 
about  this  thing  and  that,  and  looking  out  over  the 
wide  stretch  of  water  and  mountain  and  sky  spread 
before  them,  a  mingling  of  blue  so  intense  and  radiant, 
so  shot  with  sunlight,  that  it  was  hard  to  face  it  with 
unblinking  eyes. 

When  he  finally  left  he  encountered  the  nurse  in 
the  corridor.  She  was  one  who  had  often  worked  for 
him  and  he  gave  her  a  friendly  nod  of  greeting. 

"Bad  case,"  he  said  briefly,  indicating  the  room 
from  which  he  had  just  come.     The  nurse  assented 
mutely,  with  the  deference  of  her  position. 
[  266  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"You  think  it  is  best  for  her  to  go  home,  sir?"  she 
ventured  to  ask. 

"Hm!"  said  the  doctor.  "It  doesn't  matter  now 
where  she  goes." 

"As  bad  as  that!"  murmured  the  nurse  involun- 
tarily. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  gesture 
which  indicated  regret,  helplessness,  and  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  inevitable  and  they  parted. 

A  week  later  Humphrey  and  Dioneme  left  the 
hotel  to  begin  the  first  stage  of  their  homeward 
journey.  It  was  a  cool  September  morning,  too  early 
for  any  one  to  be  about  but  the  manager,  the  clerk, 
and  some  of  the  employees  of  the  hotel  who  stood 
near  the  entrance  to  say  farewell  to  the  departing 
guests. 

They  were  to  drive  down  the  mountain  in  an  old- 
fashioned  barouche  with  two  horses,  as  the  trip  in  the 
funicular  was  considered  too  fatiguing  for  Dioneme. 
Miss  Kingston  had  gone  on  ahead  to  arrange  about 
the  luggage  and  the  railroad  accommodations  at  the 
station  in  the  valley. 

On  the  drive  Dioneme  was  unusually  talkative, 
stimulated  perhaps  by  the  excitement  of  her  early  ris- 
ing, by  the  bracing  morning  air,  and  the  prospect  of 
change  and  adventure.  They  went  at  a  snail's  pace, 
brakes  on,  horses  straining  backward. 
[  267  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"It  is  always  supposed  to  be  so  easy  to  go  down- 
hill," said  Dioneme,  "but  it  is  quite  the  contrary 
for  many  people.  Puritans,  for  instance — you  know 
the  type — their  downward  course  is  such  an  involun- 
tary holding-back  at  every  step  that  immorality  be- 
comes, I  dare  say,  really  fatiguing." 

"  And  the  depths  cease  to  allure,"  added  Humphrey, 
delighted  to  see  his  mother  in  such  a  communicative 
frame  of  mind.  She  had  been  unnaturally  silent  of 
late. 

"  We  will  soon  pass  the  place  where  the  kitten  came 
from,"  he  said  again.  "I  must  show  it  to  you." 

"Poor  Mimi,"  exclaimed  Dioneme.  "The  por- 
ter's little  girl  has  her.  She  will  grow  up  and  forget 
me." 

"  Cats  don't  love  us  like  dogs." 

"  Cats  are  only  little  toy  tigers — all  their  movements 
are  of  the  jungle — that's  why  they  fascinate  one," 
his  mother  said.  There  was  a  silence  while  they 
descended  lower  and  lower  and  the  cool  air  blew  in 
their  faces. 

Suddenly  Dioneme  stretched  out  her  thin  hand 
from  the  huge  sleeve  of  her  fur  travelling  coat  and 
laid  it  on  Humphrey's.  Her  deep  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him  had  something  of  their  old  sparkle. 

"Isn't  it  delicious  to  be  going  somewhere!"  she  ex- 
claimed— "  and  I  love  this  road — the  pine  trees  in  the 
t. 


THE  MOON  LADY 

gray  mist!  After  all,  I  was  very  tired  of  being  up  there 
on  that  hill!  Weren't  you,  Humphrey?  Didn't  it 
bore  you  at  times  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  she  had  ever 
considered  Humphrey  in  this  matter,  but  now  that 
the  idea  had  finally  come  to  her  she  was  all  interest 
and  solicitude. 

"  You  must  get  very  tired,  too,  of  being  with  me  all 
the  time,"  she  went  on,  studying  his  face.  "Are  you 
sure  you  never  find  it  dull  with  me? — I  know  you  say 
you  don't." 

Humphrey  laughed  with  an  appearance  of  light- 
ness, though  this  appeal  seemed  to  him  affecting. 

"Did  any  one  in  your  whole  life  ever  tell  you  you 
were  a  bore,  mother?"  he  asked,  tucking  the  rug 
more  tightly  about  her  knees. 

But  Dioneme  was  not  to  be  put  off. 

"  I  know  you  have  never  cared  much  for  girls,"  she 
said,  "but  you  like  men — and  sport — and  all  that. 
It  seems  to  me  that  perhaps  you  ought  to  be  freer — 
to  play  about  more." 

"  What  about  mountain-climbing,"  said  Humphrey. 
"Feel  my  muscles!"  extending  an  arm  for  investiga- 
tion. "Nothing  soft  about  that,  is  there?  These 
weeks  have  done  me  no  end  of  good." 

Dioneme,  apparently  convinced,  mused  in  silence. 

Finally  she  said  with  something  like  timidity: 
[  269  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"It's  very  strange,  Humphrey,  that  you've  never 
been  in  love!" 

He  did  not  answer  immediately,  neither  did  he 
burst  into  laughter  as  she  had  expected,  dreaded  per- 
haps, for  Dioneme  was  as  much  poet  as  novelist  and 
approached  the  idea  of  love  with  something  more  than 
psychological  curiosity. 

"  Don't  deceive  yourself,  my  dear,  I've  been  in  love 
scores  of  times." 

"But  scores  of  times  adds  up  naught  in  love — you 
don't  understand  the  arithmetic  of  those  things." 

"Perhaps  not." 

"  You  have  nothing  romantic  about  you,"  was  Dion- 
eme's  conclusion. 

"  Thank  God ! "  breathed  Humphrey  fervently.  "  I 
suppose  you  would  like  a  youthful  Shelley  for  a  son." 

Dioneme  laughed. 

"I  like  you  just  as  you  are,"  she  admitted,  and  so, 
talking  lightly,  with  that  amazing  temporary  forgetful- 
ness  of  darker  issues  which  alone  makes  human  ex- 
istence possible,  they  descended  the  mountain. 


[  270 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  first  person  Linda  met  when  she  returned  to 
New  York  toward  the  end  of  October  was  Miss 
Godwin.     Their  encounter  took  place  in  the  lift  at 
the  Colony  Club,  as  they  were  on  their  way  up  to  the 
dining-room. 

"  Lunching  alone  ?  "  asked  the  old  lady.  "  So  am 
I — shall  we  lunch  together  ?  " 

Linda  assenting,  they  went  into  the  small  members* 
dining-room  and  sat  down  at  a  round  table. 

One  of  the  club  servants  in  livery  presented  a  card. 

"  The  regular  lunch,"  said  Miss  Godwin,  waving  the 
man  away,  "  bring  everything  and  we  can  eat  what  we 
like — Now  tell  me  about  your  summer,  Linda."  Miss 
Godwin's  popularity  rested  on  the  warm  human  sym- 
pathy which  is  genuinely  interested  in  everybody. 

"Well,"  began  Linda  obediently,  "we  were  on 
Long  Island  all  the  time  except  for  three  weeks  at  Bar 
Harbor.  I  meant  to  go  to  the  Adirondacks  to  stay 
with  the  Worthingtons,  but  their  mother  died  and  they 
had  to  close  the  camp.  We  are  in  town  earlier  than 
usual  because  father  got  so  tired  going  in  and  out 
every  day." 

[  271  ]  ' 


THE   MOON  LADY 

"  So  on  the  whole  it's  been  a  pleasant  summer  ?  " 

"Very,"  Linda  replied,  but  without  enthusiasm. 
Miss  Godwin  looked  at  her  shrewdly  and  wondered, 
for  the  thousandth  time,  what  had  been  the  real  story 
of  her  brief  engagement  to  Walter  Jackson.  Cer- 
tainly there  had  been  no  tragedy  about  it,  yet  Linda's 
face  had  acquired  a  new  meaning,  the  expression  one 
associates  with  deep  experience. 

"You  look  too  lovely,  Linda,  my  child!"  said  the 
old  lady  lightly,  aloud.  "  How  many  hearts  are  you 
going  to  break  this  winter  ? " 

"  What  does  one  break  hearts  with  in  New  York  ?  " 
asked  the  girl  laughing,  "a  sledge  hammer?" 

"Don't  be  cynical.  It's  not  your  style.  I  know 
it's  the  fashion  nowadays.  Romance  went  out  with 
the  hoop-skirt.  I  suppose  you  would  say  that  both 
inflated  human  beings  unnaturally,  but  I  sha'n't  give 
you  a  chance." 

"I'm  not  romantic,  I  expect,"  said  Linda  with  an 
involuntary  sigh.  The  sigh  again  reminded  Miss 
Godwin  of  the  girl's  broken  engagement,  and  she 
chasseed  gracefully  away  from  the  question  of  romance. 

"  By  the  way,  I  hear  dresses  are  to  be  stranger  than 
ever  this  year,"  she  said,  "  skirts  a  couple  of  yards 
wide.  Can  you  imagine  me  in  a  garment  like  that?" 

"You  could  never  wear  anything  but  what  was 
pretty  and  becoming,  I'm  sure,"  said  Linda. 
{  272  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"You're  a  smooth-tongued  young  person,  Linda 
Arnold!  I'm  not  sure  it's  not  your  smooth  tongue 
more  than  your  pretty  face  that  throws  the  'come- 
hither'  (as  the  Irishman  says)  over  us  all." 

"Talk  about  flattery!"    exclaimed  Linda. 

"Well,  well!  here  are  our  eggs  at  last.  If  they're 
not  good  I  shall  write  a  letter  to  the  House  Commit- 
tee," and  she  fell  to  with  an  appetite. 

"  This  is  true,  this  is  real"  said  Linda  to  herself,  in 
the  meantime,  "sitting  here  with  Miss  Godwin  in  the 
Colony  Club  and  eating  ceufs  Meyerbeer"  The  night 
before  she  had  Iain  awake  and  thought  of  Humphrey, 
of  her  disillusions  in  regard  to  Walter,  and  her  own 
loneliness.  Now  the  remembrance  of  this  emotion 
seemed  fantastic  to  her.  "  It  was  all  nervousness  and 
imagination,"  she  thought,  forgetting  that  the  night 
before  she  had  just  as  emphatically  decided  that  feel- 
ing alone  was  real,  and  that  everything  else  in  life 
was  merely  routine  and  mechanism. 

Miss  Godwin,  her  first  hunger  appeased,  and  having 
heard  all  the  news  of  Linda's  family,  proceeded  to 
give  a  rapid  epitome  of  recent  gossip.  Finally  Mrs. 
Wylde's  name  was  mentioned. 

"  She's  back  again  you  know,  with  her  good-looking 
son  at  her  apron  strings  as  usual.  I  hear  that  she's 
no  better.  Do  you  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Linda,  "I've  not  seen  anything  of  her 
[  273  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

for  some  time.  You  remember  I  told  you  so  when 
we  were  talking  of  her  at  your  luncheon  last  spring." 
In  a  less  composed  voice  she  added :  "  I  wish  I  knew 
how  she  really  was ! "  Her  own  agitation  surprised  her. 
She  thought  that  Dioneme,  as  well  as  Humphrey,  had 
gone  out  of  her  life.  Did  nothing  ever  really  come 
to  an  end  then !  She  still  held  the  belief  that  life  was  a 
series  of  disconnected  episodes,  at  the  end  of  each  of 
which  one  wrote  "finis"  as  one  thought  fit. 

"It  will  be  easy  to  learn,"  said  Miss  Godwin,  re- 
plying to  Linda's  words.  "Poor  Dioneme!  One 
can't  think,  somehow,  of  a  white  flame  like  that  being 
put  out." 

"Put  out!"  repeated  the  girl,  shocked  and  ar- 
rested. "Do  you  mean " 

"If  one  could  only  see  her — "  Miss  Godwin  said, 
"but  the  son  is  always  on  guard.  I  believe  it's  true 
that  he  doesn't  wish  his  mother  to  have  any  friends, 
though  it  seems  senseless!" 

Linda  went  away  from  the  luncheon  saddened  and 
alarmed.  Was  Dioneme  dying  ?  No,  it  could  not  be 
possible.  And  must  it  all  begin  over  again — her  at- 
tempts to  see  her,  Humphrey's  persistent  refusals,  the 
old  bafBing  mystery  of  it?  Why  could  she  not  be 
allowed  to  forget?  But  she  had  loved  Dioneme;  her 
friend  might  even  now  turn  to  that  love  and  wonder 
that  it  failed.  She  remembered  how  beautiful  she 
[  274  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

had  been  on  the  day  when  she  had  last  seen  her,  lying 
in  the  glow  of  the  spring  afternoon  with  the  green 
jade  beads  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  but  how  weak  and 
ill  even  then!  Finally  in  her  despairing  uncertainty 
Linda  determined  to  see  Dr.  Macklevaine,  though 
she  knew  him  but  slightly,  and  learn  from  him  the 
truth  about  Dioneme's  condition. 

But  how  to  do  this  ?  She  felt  that  she  could  never 
go  to  his  office  on  such  an  errand,  and  to  call  him  up 
on  the  telephone  seemed  equally  difficult.  If  only  they 
could  meet  by  chance! 

In  the  child-like  hope  of  this  she  waited  a  week 
or  ten  days,  asking,  meantime,  every  one  whom  she 
thought  might  know  for  news  of  Dioneme.  But 
nothing  happened  and  she  could  learn  nothing  definite, 
so  that  her  anxiety  grew  with  suspense.  More  and 
more  this  one  thing  obsessed  her. 

At  last,  strangely  enough,  her  opportunity  really 
came,  for  one  day  as  she  was  standing  in  the  ante- 
room of  the  Ritz-Carlton  she  saw  Dr.  Macklevaine. 
He  had  just  finished  lunching  with  a  confrere  from 
Washington,  and  was  emerging  from  the  restaurant 
redder-faced  than  ever,  corpulent  and  unconcerned, 
when  Linda  accosted  him.  At  first  he  did  not  recog- 
nize her.  There  was  to  his  mind  an  astonishing  re- 
semblance between  all  young  girls.  They  were  like 
rows  of  tulips,  gayly  pink  and  white,  inconsiderable. 
[275] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

This  one,  he  observed,  had  a  quantity  of  bronze- 
colored  hair  and  a  green  feather  in  her  hat.  He  looked 
at  her  vaguely  but  benevolently. 

"You  don't  remember  me!"  said  Linda  aggrieved, 
far  from  guessing  how  little  of  the  responsible  adult 
she  seemed  to  the  old  doctor.  "  I  met  you  once  at  Mrs. 
Wylde's — and  you  set  father's  arm  when  he  fell  from 
his  horse  and  broke  it." 

Linking  herself  thus  to  the  absorbing  interests  of 
existence  Linda  finally  became  a  definite  personality 
to  Dr.  Macklevaine. 

"Of  course  I  remember  you!"  he  said.  "You're 
Gregory  Arnold's  daughter.  Is  your  father  well  ? 
I've  not  seen  him  for  months." 

"Yes,  father  is  very  well,  thanks,  but  it  was  about 
Mrs.  Wylde  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  I  hear  so  many 
stories  about  her — that  she  is  ill,  seriously  ill,  and  yet 
I  can't  seem  to  get  at  anything  definite.  Can't  you 
tell  me  how  she  really  is?" 

Here  was  a  daring  and  ignorant  young  intruder  in- 
deed, crashing  through  all  the  defences  of  private  sen- 
timent and  professional  etiquette.  Yet  why  put  up 
signs  warning  off  the  premises  if  the  trespasser  could 
not  read.  This  was  plainly  a  case  of  simplicity  and 
ignorance,  and  Arnold's  daughter  was  a  pretty  child, 
very  much  in  earnest  too.  The  doctor  was  not  sure 
that  there  had  not  been  a  slight  mist  of  tears  in  her 
[276] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

eyes.  He  asked  himself,  puzzled,  if  this  could  have 
been  possible. 

If  he  hesitated  before  speaking  it  was  not  becaus^ 
he  was  so  much  vexed  at  the  question  as  at  a  loss  for 
an  answer  which  should  evade  as  well  as  satisfy. 

Not  for  an  instant  did  he  contemplate  revealing  the 
truth.  Even  he,  hardened  as  he  was  by  long  expe- 
rience, had  not  yet  been  brought  to  accept  it.  But 
yet  this  young  thing  must  be  answered,  put  off! 

"You  are  a  great  friend  of  Mrs.  Wylde's?"  he 
asked  finally,  wondering  what  part  in  Dioneme's  life 
his  questioner  could  play. 

"I  am  a  great  admirer  of  her's,"  said  Linda,  "I 
am  very  fond  of  her." 

"Ah!"   observed  the  doctor,  not  much  enlightened. 

"I  don't  ask  from  idle  curiosity,"  urged  the  girl, 
"you  must  see  that! "  This  time  he  was  certain  about 
the  quick  blur  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Won't  you  tell 
me  how  she  really  is  ? " 

Something  in  Macklevaine's  breast  responded  to 
the  blur  of  tears.  He  understood  them  indeed.  They 
might  have  been  light  drops  on  the  surface  of  his  own 
hidden  well  of  pain. 

"One  doesn't  feel  about  Mrs.  Wylde  as  about  the 
rest  of  the  world,"  Linda  went  on.  "  She  is  different 
from  any  one  else." 

Again  the  depths  of  old  Macklevaine's  soul  re- 
[  277  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

sponded.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  she  has  a  mind  and  soul 
given  to  few  of  her  sex.  She  has  also  great  physical 
vitality.  It  is  on  that  we  have  counted  until  now." 

"Ah!"  said  Linda  with  a  sudden  sharp  breath,  "I 
can  see  you  think  she  is  very  ill ! " 

People  coming  out  from  the  restaurant  looked  in- 
quisitively at  this  oddly  paired  couple,  absorbed  as 
they  were  in  their  talk. 

"I  have  not  said  so,"  replied  the  doctor.  His  ex- 
pression was  non-committal,  but  he  underestimated 
Linda's  powers  of  intuition. 

"But  tell  me  there  is  hope,"  she  urged,  "that  she 
may  get  well."  Without  being  conscious  of  it  they 
had  moved  gradually  to  one  side  and  now  stood  in  a 
more  or  less  sheltered  corner  near  a  great  potted  palm. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Macklevaine  gravely,  "I 
am  a  physician  and  a  physician  never  admits  there  is 
no  hope."  But  his  tone  contradicted  his  words  and 
there  was  no  need  to  inquire  farther.  Lidna  knew. 

One  thing  more  she  must  find  out  though  before  they 
separated.  She  put  it  in  another  eager,  tremulous 
question. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  could  see  her  ? " 

"She  doesn't  see  many  people,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  Quiet  is  best  for  her,  but  possibly — do  you  know  her 
son?     He  might  arrange  for  you  to  pay  her  a  short 
visit.     Mind  you — it's  got  to  be  a  short  one ! " 
[  278  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Linda's  face  darkened  at  this  allusion  to  Humphrey, 
but  she  made  no  comment. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  to  the  doctor.  Having 
played  his  part  he  was  no  longer  necessary  to  her,  but 
even  in  her  sorrowful  preoccupation  she  found  time  for 
a  passing  regret  that  people  as  old  and  world-hardened 
as  he  could  know  nothing  of  feeling  or  sentiment. 

Macklevaine,  to  Linda's  mind,  had  passed  the  age 
of  human  sympathies,  moved  in  a  far-off,  unimagina- 
ble world,  gray  and  sterile,  where  time  was  spent  in  the 
observation  of  scientific  facts  and  the  fostering  of 
material  comfort.  He  was  as  inconsiderable  from  her 
point  of  view  as  she  was  from  his.  Yet  across  the 
breach  made  by  the  passing  merely  of  one  generation 
they  gazed  for  a  moment  at  each  other  before  they 
parted  with  not  unfriendly  curiosity. 

Linda  went  home  dazed  and  bewildered,  as  if  she 
had  been  caught  in  some  street  accident  and  slightly 
wounded — she  did  not  yet  know  how  much.  It  was 
true,  then,  the  vague,  disquieting  rumor!  Dioneme 
was  really  going  to  die.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
an  outer  circle  from  the  eternal  shadow  crept  near  to 
Linda.  Her  own  environment  dimmed.  A  chill  en- 
veloped her.  She  tried  to  resist  it,  making  an  effort  to 
be  brave  and  face  the  matter  reasonably. 

What  would  Dioneme — touched  now  by  this  mys- 
tery— be  like  ?     What  would  she  say  ? 
[  279  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

Linda  was  awe-struck — half  frightened — longed  yet 
dreaded  to  go  to  her  friend. 

Would  she  talk  of  death  or  would  it  be  possible  to 
ignore  everything  that  was  tragic!  Her  reluctance  was 
the  inevitable  protest  of  youth,  always  pagan  in  its 
instinctive  impulses,  intolerant  of  all  that  is  not,  like 
itself,  health  and  beauty  and  joy.  Finally  the  spirit 
of  love  conquered  this  diffidence.  More  than  ever  she 
longed  to  pour  out  for  Dioneme  all  her  affection  and 

Pity- 
She  tried  to  think  of  a  plan  by  which  she  might 

find  her  way  to  her  without  Humphrey's  intervention. 
Not  that  she  was  afraid  this  time  of  a  rebuff,  she  felt 
there  could  be  no  more  petty  jealousies.  Not  even 
Humphrey,  hard  as  his  enemies  believed  him,  would 
try  to  stand  between  her  and  his  mother  now.  Never- 
theless her  anger  against  him  persisted.  What  was 
it  that  had  brought  Dioneme  so  low?  Overwork, 
perhaps.  The  thought  was  intolerable.  But  how 
could  she  arrange  to  see  Dioneme  ?  Suddenly  she 
thought  of  Emma  Cooper,  of  whom  she  had  had  no 
news  for  a  long  time.  Of  course  Emma  was  the  one 
to  whom,  as  once  before,  she  could  appeal. 


[  280  ] 


CHAPTER  XXII  ' 

CONSULTING  her  address  book  Linda  found 
the  whereabouts  of  Emma  Cooper  and,  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment,  set  forth  to  look  her  up, 
smiling  a  little  ruefully  at  the  thought  that  she  was 
now  to  see  for  herself  the  long-fabled  domain  of  Mrs. 
Mindelbaum. 

The  house  when  she  found  it  was  a  dingy,  high- 
porched,  brown-stone  relic  on  Lexington  Avenue. 
Cheap  lace  curtains  festooned  the  windows,  and  the 
outside  steps  were  stained  and  unswept,  wisps  of  straw 
and  paper  decorating  the  corners. 

A  small  and  impudently  jovial  negro  boy  answered 
her  ring,  his  grinning  self-assurance  changing  to  awe 
however  as  he  caught  sight  of  Linda's  motor-car. 
The  door,  opened  at  first  only  half-way,  was  swung 
wide,  and  a  strong  and  sickening  odor  of  boiled  cab- 
bage poured  out  in  great  volume. 

Upon  inquiring  for  Miss  Cooper  Linda  was  told  that 
she  was  at  home,  as  indeed  was  expected,  it  being  the 
hour  when  she  always  returned  from  her  day's  work, 
and  rested  a  little  before  her  dinner. 

The  visitor  was  shown  into  a  front  room  divided 
[  281  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

by  curtains  into  two  separate  apartments.  From  be- 
hind these  curtains  came  the  murmur  of  low  voices,  the 
occasional  wail  of  a  baby,  and  a  smell  of  arnica  lini- 
ment equalling  that  of  the  boiled  cabbage  in  intensity, 
but  it  was  apparently  a  place  of  unbroken  gloom,  for 
no  light  of  any  kind  showed  over  the  screening  curtains. 
Linda  wondered  if  it  were  the  last  post  held  by  the 
Mindelbaum  family,  or  if,  in  a  press  of  lodgers,  the 
end  of  the  drawing-room  had  been  rented  out  to  some 
one  not  too  exacting  in  the  way  of  light  and  air.  On 
her  side  of  the  curtains  there  reigned  a  prim  neatness 
which  was  at  the  same  time  grimy  and  frayed,  with 
an  abundance  of  tawdry  decoration  which  failed  to 
decorate:  crocheted  woollen  mats,  stamped  gilt  pict- 
ure-frames, Japanese  fans,  Christmas  cards,  and  orna- 
ments from  the  ten-cent  counter  of  some  cheap  depart- 
ment shop.  The  lights  in  the  imitation  bronze  chan- 
delier had  shades  made  of  rose-colored  paper,  and  two 
china  lamps  were  adorned  in  the  same  way.  Linda 
took  in  these  details  with  a  vague  and  sympathizing 
pity.  Did  not  the  hand-painted  tambourine  on  the 
draped  mantel-piece  represent  the  same  struggle  up- 
ward toward  beauty  as  the  old  Ming  jar  which  stood 
on  her  own  ?  The  rose-colored  shades  of  crimped 
tissue-paper  also  struck  her  as  symbolic  and  touching. 
She  imagined  the  elderly,  hard-working  spinster 
boarders  sitting  of  an  evening  in  this  pink  glow. 
[  282  ] 


While  she  was  examining  a  photograph  of  a  group, 
presumably  the  Mindelbaum  family,  Emma  Cooper 
came  in.  There  was  no  trace  of  agitation  in  her  man- 
ner as  they  exchanged  greetings,  though  the  red  of  in- 
tense nervous  excitement  colored  her  prominent  cheek- 
bones. Probably  of  all  the  events  of  life,  the  one  she 
had  least  expected  was  a  call  from  Miss  Arnold.  Her 
sense  of  what  was  due  to  her  own  self-respect  and  her 
knowledge  of  deportment  would  have  kept  her  out- 
wardly calm,  however,  under  even  more  distracting 
events. 

"Do  sit  down,  Miss  Arnold,"  she  said.  "You'll 
find  that  rocker  most  comfortable,  I  guess,  though 
rockers  are  kind  of  old-fashioned  now." 

Linda  made  a  slight  gesture  toward  the  end  of  the 
room  where  behind  the  curtains  the  murmur  of  voices 
still  continued.  "Why  couldn't  we  go  up  to  your 
room  where  we  could  talk  without  being  overheard  ?  " 
she  suggested. 

For  the  barest  instant  Miss  Cooper  hesitated. 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  said.  "If  you  don't  mind 
climbing  three  flights  of  stairs.  I  would  have  hated 
to  have  asked  you." 

"I  don't  mind  in  the  least,  and  those  people  back 
there,  whom  one  hears  without  being  able  to  see,  make 
me  just  a  little  self-conscious." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Emma.  "You  needn't  have 
[  283  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

minded  them!  It's  only  Mrs.  Mindelbaum's  mar- 
ried daughter — but  I  guess  it  will  be  quieter  up- 
stairs." 

They  made  the  ascent  silently,  accompanied  by  the 
smell  of  boiled  cabbage  in  diminuendo.  At  a  door 
near  the  fourth-floor  landing  Emma  paused. 

"That  was  Flora  Kelly's  room,"  she  said  in  a  whis- 
per, and  Linda  felt  a  sudden,  creeping  unpleasantness 
and  disquietude,  as  if  she  had  been  shown  the  room 
of  some  one  who  had  died  a  violent  death.  The 
whole  ignominious,  commonplace  tragedy  woke  in  her 
memory.  How  strange  that  it  should  have  played  a 
decisive  part  in  her  own  life!  And  here  she  was  steal- 
ing past  little  Flora  Kelly's  door  like  an  interloper. 
She  wondered  what  had  become  of  the  girl  but  was 
half  afraid  to  ask,  her  feelings  toward  her  were  too 
complex — pity  and  disgust  and  some  dim  unclassified 
emotion  which  bore  a  resemblance  to  gratitude. 
Certainly  she  had  never  loved  Walter,  but  some  things 
are  nevertheless  an  offence  to  one's  pride. 

In  this  uncertain  mood  she  was  ushered  into  Emma's 
hall  bedroom,  with  its  hangings  and  covers  of  silkoline. 
A  shelf  of  books  and  a  framed  photograph  of  Mrs. 
Wylde  witnessed  Miss  Cooper's  greatest  claim  to  dis- 
tinction. Linda  sat  down  on  one  of  the  two  chairs  and 
smiled  at  her  hostess. 

"  How  pleasant  you  have  made  your  little  room,"  she 
[284] 


THE    MOON   LADY 

said.  "I  could  have  recognized  it  in  a  minute  from 
what  you  told  me!" 

"Oh — Miss  Arnold,"  exclaimed  Emma,  quite 
choked  with  the  intensity  of  her  feelings,  "  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  I'd  never  have  got  back  to  it.  You 
couldn't  ever  have  come  to  see  me  in  the  room  I  was 
living  in  when  you  got  me  that  work  last  April." 

"Was  it  as  bad  as  all  that?"  said  Linda.  "Poor 
Emma! — but  you  like  your  work  now — don't  you,  and 
have  plenty  of  it?" 

"Everything's  fine  now,  thank  you.  See  here — 
Miss  Arnold,  I  want  to  show  you  this  photograph.  It's 
Flora  Kelly — taken  when  I  first  knew  her — a  real, 
pretty  little  face,  isn't  it  ? — but  no  chin  to  speak  of.  I 
guess  that's  what  was  the  matter  with  her.  People 
can't  get  through  life  without  chins." 

Linda  contemplated  the  weak,  childish  face  in  si- 
lence for  a  moment. 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Have  you  ever 
heard  from  her  ?  I  remember  you  told  me  last  spring 
you  had  only  received  a  post-card." 

"  Oh — I  had  a  long  letter  from  her  not  so  many  days 
ago — sort  of  a  pathetic  letter!  She  passed  over  a  good 
deal.  I  had  to  guess  at  things.  She  said  she'd  been 
sick  for  quite  a  while — there  at  that  farm  in  Indiana 
where  she  went.  Those  silly  little  things  like  Flora 
go  down  pretty  deep  into  life  sometimes.  Strange — 
[285  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

isn't  it!     But  it  don't  change  them  much.     They  come 
out  just  the  same  as  ever. 

"  She's  quite  well  now  and  it  seems  she's  met  a  man 
who  keeps  a  drug  store  in  the  nearest  town  to  where 
she  is  and  he's  in  love  with  her  and  she's  going  to 
marry  him.  She  says  he  is  a  handsome  man  and 
well-to-do  and  that  she's  very  happy.  He's  build- 
ing a  new  house  for  her  and  has  bought  her  a 
pianola." 

"  Do  you  suppose  she  told  him  about  New  York  t " 
asked  Linda  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

Miss  Cooper  sighed. 

"There's  no  telling,"  she  said.  "Flora  never 
seemed  to  sense  the  importance  of  things — or  what 
was  right  or  what  was  wrong.  Perhaps  she  told  him 
and  he  didn't  care.  There  are  men  like  that,  or  maybe 
he  just  took  her  side.  She  had  a  way  of  making 
people  sympathize  with  her  even  when  she  was  to 
blame.  And  she  was  pretty  enough  for  anything." 

"  Yes,"  Linda  replied,  still  regarding  the  photograph. 
"She  was  certainly  pretty."  After  a  little  she  laid  the 
picture  down  on  the  table. 

"  So  that's  an  end  of  Flora  Kelly's  story,"  she  said 
gravely. 

"  For  you  and  me,  I  guess,"  Emma  replied,  not  even 
dimly  imagining  how  her  visitor's  own  story  had  been 
woven  with  an  ugly  thread  from  little  Flora's. 
[  286  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"Well,"  said  Linda,  drawing  a  long  breath  as  if 
about  to  enter  on  the  serious  matter  of  her  visit,  "I 
suppose  you're  wondering  what  I've  come  to  see  you 
for,  Emma." 

"I  hope  it's  because  you  want  something  of  me. 
There's  nothing  that  would  give  me  as  much  pleasure 
as  that." 

"Yes,  I  do  in  a  way — do  you  ever  work  for  Mrs. 
Wylde  now?'* 

Emma's  face  saddened. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know,  Miss  Arnold,"  she  said. 
"She  can't  work  now.  I  guess  she  isn't  ever  going 
to  work  much  more." 

"Do  you  ever  see  her?" 

"  Yes — I  go  to  the  house  sometimes — to  see  if  there's 
some  little  thing  I  can  do  for  her.  I  worked  for  her 
so  long  she  kind  of  likes  to  have  me  about.  She  don't 
see  many  people." 

"  Her  son  doesn't  wish  it  ?  "  There  was  a  shade  of 
almost  unprecedented  bitterness  in  Linda's  voice. 

"No.  Mr.  Humphrey  watches  over  her  more  than 
ever.  I  never  saw  a  young  gentleman  so  devoted  to 
his  mother." 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do,"  said  Linda  firmly,  "  is 
to  find  out  from  Mrs.  Wylde  whether  she  wants  to  see 
me  or  not,  and  if  she  does,  arrange  a  meeting — even 
if  Mr.  Wylde  disapproves.     Will  you  ?  " 
[  287  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"  Of  course  I'll  do  anything  you  say,"  began  Emma 
doubtfully — "but  there's  the  doctor — what  if  he 
thinks  it  would  be  bad  for  her?" 

"I've  already  talked  with  Dr.  Macklevaine — he 
didn't  disapprove  of  my  seeing  her  for  a  few  minutes 
only.  It's  only  her  son  who  wants  to  keep  everything 
and  everybody  away  from  her." 

"  I'm  sure  Mr.  Humphrey  knows  what's  best,"  fal- 
tered Emma,  torn  by  divided  allegiance. 

Linda,  with  an  effort,  maintained  a  reserved  silence, 
and  not  even  by  the  expression  of  her  face  made  Emma 
acquainted  with  her  own  opinion  of  Humphrey. 
Undoubtedly,  too,  a  subtle  and  inadmissible  interest 
in  hearing  his  name  mentioned  persisted  with  her 
scorn  of  him. 

"It  isn't  as  if  Mrs.  Wylde  wouldn't  be  sure  to 
want  to  see  you — '*  went  on  Emma,  arguing  with 
herself. 

Linda  looked  at  the  framed  photograph  on  the 
wall — and  it  seemed  to  her  to  wear  the  same  sweet, 
baffling  smile  as  the  original. 

"You  think,"  she  asked,  "that  she  really  would 
care?" 

"  Why — I  never  saw  her  take  such  a  fancy  to  any 

one,  Miss  Arnold,  as  she  did  to  you.     She  talked 

about  you  lots — you  know  her  way  of  saying  things. 

I  heard  her  tell  Mr.  Humphrey  once  that  you  looked 

[  288  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

as  if  your  lips  said,  '  Kiss  me,'  and  your  eyes  said, 
'If  you  dare!'" 

Linda  rose  and  examined  the  photograph  more 
closely. 

"That's  a  very  good  picture,"  she  said.  "I  never 
saw  it  before." 

"She's  changed  since  then,"  Emma  remarked, 
dusting  the  frame  carefully  with  her  handkerchief. 
"  You'll  be  kind  of  shocked  if  you  see  her.  It's  better 
for  you  to  be  prepared.  I  wasn't — and  I  sha'n't  ever 
forget  my  first  glimpse  of  her  after  she  got  back  from 
Europe.  I  could  hardly  keep  from  crying.  There  was 
always  something  about  her  that  made  you  feel  sorry, 
somehow,  and  excited  at  the  same  time — (it's  hard  to 
describe) — and  now  that  she's  so  sick  it's  much 
worse." 

"She  must  have  failed  very  fast,"  said  Linda. 
"  In  the  spring  she  didn't  seem  so  ill — did  she  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  no  one  knew  how  ill  she  was — and 
those  things  go  quick  toward  the  end." 

"  'Toward  the  end,'  "  echoed  mournfully  in  Linda's 
soul.  She  had  been  talking  with  calmness  enough — 
but  now  something  made  her  suddenly  faint  and  trem- 
ulous. Her  self-control  failed  and  her  throat  swelled 
with  emotion.  It  seemed  impossible  that  Dioneme 
should  die — never  more  impossible  than  now  when  she 
was  assured  of  it.  But  Emma  talked  on,  dry-eyed, 
[  289  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

with  the  composure  of  those  who  are  familiar  with  the 
grimness  of  both  life  and  death. 

"  You  see,  I've  got  all  her  books,"  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  the  shelf.  "  Everything  she  ever  wrote 
— and  most  of  them  have  a  dedication.  'With  best 
wishes  from  the  author.'  See  here!"  and  she  opened 
"Hilmer  Brothers"  and  showed  the  inscribed  fly-leaf 
to  Linda  with  pride. 

"I  typed  all  of  them  except  the  first  two.  One  of 
them's  got  a  character  in  it  quite  like  me.  I  don't 
know  whether  she  ever  meant  it  or  not." 

"  She  always  used  to  say  she  never  took  her  charac- 
ters from  life." 

"Well — I  guess  she  never  meant  to — but  writers 
don't  always  know  when  they're  remembering  and 
when  they're  making  up." 

"I'm  sure  she  never  wrote  anything  to  hurt  any- 
body," said  Linda. 

"Yes — I'm  sure  of  that,"  agreed  Emma,  "or  at 
any  rate  she  never  intended  it  if  she  did." 

Unconsciously  they  were  talking  as  if  Dioneme  had 
already  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  Their  voices  had 
the  note  of  tenderness  and  solemnity  with  which  wom- 
en speak  of  the  dead. 

After  a  time  Linda  grew  aware  that  the  little  room 
where  they  sat  was  almost  entirely  dark.  In  their  absorp- 
tion they  had  not  noticed  that  the  daylight  had  faded. 
[  290  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"Let  me  light  the  gas!"  cried  Emma,  suddenly 
alert  and  hospitable. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Linda,  to  whom  the  dim  light  was 
welcome.  "  I  must  go  now !  And  you  will  telephone 
me  when  Mrs.  Wylde  can  see  me  ? " 

It  had  been  ta  itly  assumed  between  them  that 
Linda  was  to  have  her  way. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cooper.  "I  will  telephone — but 
I  daren't  let  Mr.  Humphrey  know!" 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  replied  Linda.  "You 
are  not  doing  anything  wrong.  Mrs.  Wylde  can 
surely  decide  for  herself — and  we  have  Macklevaine's 
permission." 

"Yes,"  assented  Miss  Cooper,  but  half-heartedly 
still. 

A  faint  suspicion  that  there  was  something  in  the 
relations  of  Linda  and  Mrs.  Wylde  and  her  son  which 
she  did  not  understand  passed  for  the  first  time  through 
her  mind. 


[291  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AS  once  before,  Humphrey,  coming  home  and  go- 
ing directly  to  his  mother's  sitting-room,  was 
surprised  to  find  there  a  slight  feminine  figure.  But 
this  time  it  was  not  an  unfamiliar  one.  Standing 
under  the  portrait  of  Dioneme,  Linda,  his  little  love, 
faced  him  with  something  of  defiance  and  agitation, 
a  bright  color  glowing  in  her  cheeks. 

Looking  at  her  Humphrey  realized  how  unalterably 
dear  she  was,  how  brave  and  sweet  in  her  mistaken 
anger  against  him  and  her  loyalty  to  his  mother. 
His  eyes,  hungry  after  long  abstinence,  took  in  every 
subtle  detail  of  her,  the  little  beauties  his  lover's  imagi- 
nation fancied  it  had  discovered  for  itself,  the  odd 
slant  of  her  eyebrows,  the  soft  delicious  spot  behind 
her  little  rosy  ears,  the  wave  in  her  hair  where  it  dipped, 
curving,  over  her  eyes. 

And  he  waited  for  her  to  speak,  knowing  the  peculiar 
vibration  in  her  voice  would  affect  his  nerves  as  always, 
dreading  yet  longing  for  it. 

But  Linda  was  silent,  unable  it  seemed  to  find 
words,  and  he  was  forced  to  have  pity  on  her  and  speak 
first  himself. 

[  292  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"It  is  a  surprise  to  find  you  here,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  know  that  you  were  coming." 

The  girl  fancied  she  heard  displeasure  in  his  even 
tones,  resentment  at  being  as  it  were  outwitted. 

"  Your  mother  wished  to  see  me.  If  I  hadn't  made 
sure  of  that  I  would  not  be  here.  Dr.  Macklevaine, 
too,  gave  me  permission.  It  was  only  you  who  wished 
to  keep  us  apart." 

Humphrey  made  no  reply. 

"Do  you  deny  it?"  urged  Linda,  after  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"  Yet  you  knew  I  loved  your  mother — and  that  she, 
I  think,  liked  to  have  me  with  her." 

"  I  wanted  you  to  love  her,"  said  Humphrey  simply. 
"I  wanted  your  love  for  her  to  remain  always  the 
same — what  it  was  when  you  first  knew  her.  Have 
you  seen  her  yet  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Linda.  Not  yet.  The  nurse  told  me 
to  wait  here  until  she  called  me." 

"Yesterday  was  one  of  her  bad  days,"  said  Hum- 
phrey, sighing  a  little  at  the  remembrance,  "  and  to-day 
she  is  feeling  the  effects.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  for 
you  to  come  some  other  time  perhaps  ?  It  is  a  pity 
to  keep  you  waiting  here." 

He  spoke  with  formal  courtesy,  moving  aside  from 
the  door  as  if  to  let  her  pass  if  she  wished. 

But  Linda  disregarded  this  suggestion. 
[  293  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"You  talk  of  affection,"  she  exclaimed,  "but  what 
do  you,  yourself,  know  of  it?  Can  you  pretend  to 
really  love  your  mother — unselfishly  ?  If  what  people 
say  is  true  you  have  failed  to  prove  it."  There  was 
an  almost  brutal  directness  in  this  speech — the  direct- 
ness of  which  extreme  youth  alone  is  capable.  Only 
inexperience  is  merciless. 

"And  what  do  people  say?"  asked  Humphrey. 
He  had  gone  nearer  to  her  and  was  looking  squarely 
into  her  eyes.  In  their  excitement  they  had  both 
raised  their  voices. 

"  Why  do  you  want  me  to  repeat  it !  Words  make  it 
coarse.  I  become  coarse  myself  only  by  talking  of 
it." 

"  But  I  wish  to  know.  I  insist  on  your  telling  me." 
Something  in  the  very  violence  of  their  words  showed 
that  this  was  a  quarrel  between  two  who  had  been, 
and  perhaps  still  were,  lovers.  Under  their  anger, 
stimulating  it  and  supporting  it,  was  a  wave  of  pas- 
sion. 

"You  know  the  facts.  Why  do  you  take  any  in- 
terest in  the  comments  on  them?" 

"I  have  a  right  to  know.  Tell  me  what  they  say," 
repeated  Humphrey  masterfully. 

"Let  him  hear  then!"  thought  Linda,  and  she 
poured  forth  the  whole  arraignment — that  Humphrey 
had  allowed  his  mother  to  work  in  order  that  he  might 
[  294  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

live  in  idleness,  giving  up  his  profession  and  all  am- 
bition to  make  a  place  for  himself  in  the  world;  that 
when  his  mother's  health  had  broken  down  under  the 
strain  of  too  much  mental  labor,  he  had,  with  an  eye 
to  future  provision  for  himself  and  fearing  inter- 
ference from  outsiders,  gradually  alienated  her  from 
all  her  friends  and  acquaintances,  breaking  engage- 
ments without  excuse,  absenting  himself  with  his 
mother  for  long  periods  of  time  without  any  cause  or 
explanation  and  giving  no  address — "And  as  for  me," 
concluded  Linda,  "you  said  you  loved  me — almost 
persuaded  me  that  I  cared  for  you — but  when  I  could 
not  accept  the  idea  of  your  giving  up  your  profession 
to  live  in  idleness,  when  I  told  you  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  me  to  love  a  man  I  couldn't  respect — you 
made  no  effort  to  change,  but  simply  accepted  my 
decision  and  showed  your  resentment  by  trying,  in 
every  small  and  petty  way  possible,  to  prevent  my 
seeing  your  mother.  You  punished  me,  as  it  were, 
for  daring  to  criticise  you  by  taking  away  from  me 
all  companionship  with  your  mother — the  thing  that 
was  my  greatest  pleasure." 

Here  poor  little  Linda's  nerves  got  the  better  of  her 
completely  and  she  began  to  sob,  uncontrollably,  like 
an  overstrained  child. 

Mingled  with  her  anger  was  a  confused  sense  of 
shame  and  paltriness  which  she  could  not  account  for. 
[  295  ] 


THE   MOON  LADY 

No  security  of  righteousness  upheld  her.  Her  own 
arguments  seemed  unconvincing  now  that  her  tirade 
was  at  an  end. 

And  Humphrey  never  answered.  That  made  it 
worse,  more  unbearable.  She  sank  weakly  in  a  chair 
and  hid  her  face,  while  he  stood  over  her,  protectingly 
almost,  but  still  without  words. 

Something  of  strength  and  calm  seemed  to  come 
from  him,  even  in  his  muteness.  Instinctively  she 
yielded  to  it  and  little  by  little  ceased  to  sob. 

"Why  don't  you  defend  yourself?"  she  asked 
naively.  "Is  there  nothing  you  have  to  say?" 

"I  do  not  want  to  'defend  myself  as  you  call  it," 
Humphrey  replied,  "  but  I  am  not  the  blackguard  you 
try  to  make  yourself  think  me — and  I  love  you  and  I 
shall  always  love  you.  What  is  more,  I  think  in  the 
bottom  of  your  heart  you  love  me." 

Linda,  protesting,  started  to  answer,  but  just  then 
Dioneme's  voice  came  to  them  from  the  room  beyond, 
weak  but  unmistakable. 

"Humphrey! — Linda!"   it  called. 

Linda,  startled,  dismayed,  sprang  to  her  feet.  She 
saw  that  the  door  between  the  sitting-room  and  the  bed 
room  was  very  slightly  ajar.  Forgetful  now  of  them- 
selves she  and  Humphrey  exchanged  a  glance  full  of 
consternation.  How  much  had  Dioneme  heard  ?  What 
would  it  mean  to  her  ? 

[  296  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

"Humphrey!  Linda!"  called  the  voice  again, 
sweet  but  imperious. 

Further  hesitation  was  impossible.  They  must 
obey.  Humphrey  pushed  open  the  door  for  his  com- 
panion and  followed  her  into  the  other  room. 

They  saw  Dioneme  lying  on  a  couch  pulled  near  the 
window.  Tipped  back  against  blue,  lace-covered 
cushions,  her  face  did  not  at  first  seem  to  Linda 
greatly  changed,  except  that  a  new  quality  had  been 
added  to  its  beauty,  a  quality  she  could  not  define — 
something  luminous,  impersonal,  penetrating. 

"Come  here,  children!"  said  Dioneme,  reaching 
out  a  shadowy  hand. 

As  they  wen"  nearer  to  her  she  looked  at  them  both 
with  a  kind  of  grave  wonder. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  in  love  with  each 
other  ?  "  she  said ;  "  why  did  you  leave  it  to  chance  for 
me  to  find  it  out  ? " 

Humphrey  tried  to  answer,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Humphrey — and  I  found  out  more  besides 
— that  it  is  I  who  have  kept  you  and  Linda  apart  all 
this  time — I  with  my  hideous  secret.  '  Protector  of  the 
house,'  Humphrey — to  your  own  cost!  I  should  have 
guessed!  But  now  it  is  time  for  truth — and  Linda 
must  have  it!  ' 

Again  Humphrey  tried  to  protest,  but  his  mother 
did  not  heed  him.  With  a  slight  gesture  she  motioned 
[  297  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Linda  to  her  side.  The  girl  sank  on  the  floor  by  the 
couch,  her  face  upturned,  her  hand  in  Dioneme's. 
Humphrey  withdrawing  into  the  shadow  at  the  corner 
of  the  room  watched  them  both  intently.  His  mother 
seemed  to  have  become,  of  a  sudden,  supremely  hu- 
man. All  her  fierce  and  splendid  egotism  was,  as  if 
at  once  and  finally  consumed  by  the  flaming-up  in  her 
of  the  divine,  the  will  to  sacrifice  self  for  love  of  another. 

"  You  have  been  a  good  little  friend  to  me,  Linda," 
said  Dioneme  to  the  girl.  "  You  have  cared  for  me  a 
good  deal,  haven't  you?" 

"If  I  could  only  tell  you  how  much,"  moaned  the 
girl. 

"  You've  thought  me  a  wonderful  creature — perfect, 
I  dare  say!" 

"There  was  never  any  one  like  you!" 

"Ah! — I  wish  I  might  have  left  that  memory! — " 
the  cry  was  instinctive,  not  to  be  controlled.  "But 
you've  been  deluding  yourself,  Linda.  I'm  not  the 
woman  you  think.  I've  two  natures;  one  that  looks 
over  the  heads  of  other  people  in  some  ways  perhaps, 
one  that  lies  in  the  mud  at  their  feet.  You've  only 
seen  me  star-gazing — but  Humphrey — poor  boy!  has 
found  me,  many  times,  lying  low.  He'll  tell  you 
what  my  vice  has  been,  a  common,  degrading  vice — 
outcasts  have  it  more  often  than  kings.  It's  been  a 
hard  thing  to  hide,  but  Humphrey  has  contrived  to 
[  298  ] 


THE  MOON  LADY 

hide  it  by  giving  up  all  life  of  his  own — all  love  of  his 
own!" 

Here  Linda  gave  a  smothered  cry  which  somehow 
wrung  Humphrey's  heart  more  than  all  his  mother's 
words. 

The  older  woman  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  the  girl's 
shoulder: 

"You  see,  you've  been  in  the  wrong,"  she  said. 
"When  your  heart  said  'love  him'  you  should  have 
trusted  it.  You've  just  said  there  was  never  any  one 
like  me.  Was  there  ever  any  one  like  Humphrey  ?  " 

There  came  an  inarticulate  dissent  from  the  corner 
where  Humphrey  stood.  Dioneme  answered  it  imme- 
diately; "Yes — I  know  you've  always  hated  words, 
my  dear  boy — but  things  must  be  said  sometimes — 
better  when  it's  not  too  late!" 

Her  son  crossed  the  room  swiftly  and  leaning  over 
kissed  her  hair  in  his  old  fashion,  struggling  now  for 
self-control.     Linda's  face  was  still  hidden. 

"I  know  you  are  sorry  for  me — both  of  you,"  said 
Dioneme.  "Perhaps  you  would  be  even  more  sorry 
if  you  could  guess  what  the  horror  of  the  struggle  has 
been — for  there  was  a  struggle — I  didn't  go  down  will- 
ingly, no  one  does." 

She  paused  a  moment,  shaken  by  nervous  weakness 
and  suffering.  The  ordeal  was  almost  too  much  for 
her. 

[  299  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

"I  have  seen  an  unclean  spirit  face  to  face,"  she 
said  at  last,  almost  in  a  whisper,  as  if  to  herself.  Linda 
shuddered  and  the  silence  in  the  room  was  painful. 

At  last  Dioneme,  with  a  great  effort,  threw  off  this 
oppression. 

"Somehow  I  feel  that  everything  will  be  different 
now,"  she  said.  "  When  I  am  well  I  shall  not  be  the 
same  woman.  We  will  never  talk  of  this  any  more — 
but  you  will  not  believe  I  knowingly  kept  Humphrey 
from  you — will  you,  Linda? — The  truth  is  hateful 
enough  without  that." 

Did  Dioneme  know  when  she  talked  so  confidently 
about  the  future  that  for  her  it  would  be  short  ? 

"Oh — I  can  never  believe  anything  against  you!" 
moaned  the  girl.  "I  shall  always  love  you  just  the 
same.  Nothing  that  you  say  can  ever  change  my 
thoughts  of  you!"  For  the  moment  she  felt  she  was 
speaking  the  truth,  but  Dioneme  was  not  deceived. 
Her  deep  eyes  were  full  of  wisdom  and  profoundly  sad. 
When  she  spoke  again,  however,  it  was  even  more 
lightly. 

"  And  now  will  you  two  children  go  and  talk  to  each 
other  for  a  while  ?"  she  said,  "I  feel  that  I  should  like 
to  rest  a  little.  I  am  tired  and  want  to  lie  quietly  and 
think  everything  over.  It  will  all  weave  itself  into  a 
kind  of  pattern  I  expect — like  a  story.  Things  have 
always  been  stories  to  me — even  my  own  life!" 
[  300  ] 


THE   MOON   LADY 

Humphrey  and  Linda  kissed  her  and  went  out  of  the 
room  lingeringly,  hand  in  hand. 

After  they  had  gone  Dioneme  lay  motionless,  her 
eyes  on  distance  and  something  like  her  old  whimsical 
and  evasive  smile  on  her  lips,  though  the  tears  wrung 
from  her  by  the  bitterness  of  her  confession  still  moist- 
ened her  cheeks. 


[301  ] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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